


Waiting For My Real Life To Begin

by maevestrom



Category: Advance Wars, Punch-Out!! (Video Games), Super Smash Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Army, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Developing Relationship, Engagement, Eye Trauma, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Memorials, Military, New York City, POV Multiple, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Points of View, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Poverty, Secret Identity, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-09 04:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14708717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevestrom/pseuds/maevestrom
Summary: A washed up boxer and a troubled veteran try and rebuild life together when they're all that they have.





	1. Here and Now

**Mac POV**

I find myself in a locker room six feet under the bar, recovering and reeling from my latest fight. I’m resting against a locker with a boxing glove on the small of my back, keeping the bruise comfortable. I’m dabbling blood off my eyebrow with the rag, knowing I’ll have to throw it out soon to avoid arousing suspicion from you. It looks like it was tasked with cleaning up the remains of ten dead bodies. I’ve got an ace bandage around my arm, and an ice pack on top of my head. I’m in such rough shape that I can’t believe I won. I'm just trying to figure out how I can fake it until I make it.

My opponent, a guy named Ike who’s got at least a foot and a half on me and built enough to contain two Little Macs, is recovering across from me. He regards me with a professional veneer beyond that of what I normally expect. He’s fixed up faster than I, clearly more practiced at the routine. “Can I help you?” he asks.

I’ve just beaten his ass and won the cash prize, and here he is trying to help me. I shake my head, used to the routine. It’s not a matter of method, but of time. He accepts that answer, packing his bag full of things. Unlike mine, nothing is hidden. He’s a boxer through and through- imperfect and untrained, true, but most of these underground folk are. I’m just amazed that I’ve still kept enough skill to avoid being swept under the rug like a long forgotten novelty act deserves to be.

After a few silent, awkward minutes, I finally am rested enough to put my first aid kit away. There’s a bandage on my cheek, that I know I can’t keep on forever because it’s a dead giveaway. There’s a reason I do late morning matches for the drunks that don’t know when to leave a bar much like I used to be. I need the rest of the day to heal so I can pretend to be normal when I’m home, like I’m completely fine, so I don't worry you and instead lie to you like it's the better alternative. Considering how much anxiety you put yourself through, it often does seem like the logical alternative. I take the books out of my bag, place the supplies underneath in perfect order, and then put my books back on top of them.

Ike notices. “Moonlighter?” he asks.

“Not exactly moonlight, but basically.”

Ike sits up, nodding politely. “What do you study?”

“Eh…” Good question, but I bullshit it. “Hoping to work up to sports journalism.”

“Better up there than down here for some people, I suppose.” He finally addresses the elephant in the room after a little bit of hesitation. “You trying to work your way back up?”

I shake my head. “I know my prime has pretty much passed, but I still don’t mind a match every now and again. This is just what I know.”

“I can respect that,” he responds. “Just take care of yourself. If you want to work your way out of this, you need to make it out in one piece.”

I smirk. “I think I can handle myself.”

Ike laughs. “True enough. A match at a time, at least. Enough matches can wear you down, though.” I lift my bag up, getting ready to go. As I prepare to leave, Ike says, “if you and yours are ever up for a drink sometime, meet up here. It’s not half-bad.”

I shake my head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m beyond drinking.”

Ike nods understandingly. It takes him a second to realize his faux-pas. “Oh. My apologies, it hadn't crossed my mind.” And yet, sadly, it did. “Regardless, hope to see you around. Take care.”

I walk away with a forced smile, still finding his behavior to be entirely too bizarre. It’s not like he was a slouch in the ring- he had the build of some of the old nemesi I used to face- but he’s so relaxed and at peace with himself, despite working in a place I could go the rest of my life without seeing again. Even as I hit the bus stop, he doesn’t quite leave my mind. I pop some aspirin to help ease my throbbing head, wondering how the hell I’m going to write a half-decent book review now. It’s crazy how even when I’m on the right track I’m still going nowhere fast.

I count the minutes until I'm due home, and check my reflection in a puddle in front of me. I look mostly presentable, and I'm back in my day clothes. I think you said you had therapy today, so I know I'm going to need to be home. I just hope that you'll be okay. If it's as it usually is, I'll need to be in decent shape. Some fights last forever, after all.

**Sami POV**

“Well,” my perfectly coordinated therapist says, scrunching up her perfect nose in her attempts to appear perfectly cool in front of today's hatred for the world from her favorite patient. “We've certainly covered a lot today.”

I suck the snot back into my nose and nod. “Suuuuuure did,” I drawl with the utmost sarcasm, because I don't feel like I've gone anywhere. I check the clock again like a student waiting for the class to end. Thankfully the second hand has only half a cycle to go until fifty after, when my appointment ends.

“I apologize that we've been short on time today,” she says, even though she gave me a fucking miracle by letting me stretch out the time with my rambling. “I think it'd be best if you returned tomorrow. We certainly have a lot to finish.”

Fuck. Serves me right for stalling for time. I nod and offer a half-interested “Sure, sure.” I know I probably should be grateful, though. I mean, I've gotta be high risk if she's asking to see me tomorrow. Most vets I still keep in contact with are lucky to get in twice a month, much less twice in two days. I notice the second's just passed the minute mark and decide it's time to go. I grab my bag and bid a quick farewell. “Later, Zel.”

“Tomorrow, same time.” Her perfectly musical voice chases after me as I walk out before I'm pressed into further conversation. As I weave out of the VA Hospital, I don't make eye contact with anyone. All I can think of is how many drinks I can buy with five bucks and if it'll be enough to forget.

Hah, now it's easy to see how I ended up in therapy.

It's weird how much my drinking habits correlate to my therapy appointments. Kind of like clockwork, or something. I can't imagine what it is about spilling a war and a half of secrets that could drive me to drink two beers minimum every Tuesday evening. Forgetting, that shit's easy. I thought therapy would be an easy cure. That talking through my issues would fix everything. Maybe I just really wanted an easy fix. I think I'm realizing that there's not an easy fix for this. You'd think after six years and unfixable injuries I'd realize this for myself.

Jesus, I'm in a state lately. I generally repress any trauma well enough that I at least look functioning, but you wouldn't exactly need both eyes to see that I've been messed up since we moved in. I only have one eye and I can see it. If I said moving in with you triggered it to weigh more on my mind like a bad tumor, it's not because it's shitty or anything. I mean, you might think your place is shitty, but it's better than I had. Better enough that now I have to compartmentalize all of the wounds I had to be too strong to deal with.

The one-sided conversations I barrelled through today bleed out my brain as I ride today's old, creaky, begging-for-death bus, but I'll fix that. I compared enlistment to being led to a white van under the promise of candy. You're expecting an awesome time- being a hero, saving the world, being in an action movie with all kinds of awesome people- but not long after you ended up in there you realize you just stepped into the worst experience of your life that doesn't benefit you at all. Zelda always seems to get a stifled chuckle or a choked gasp at my poetic analysis of my demons that she's too perfect to make too noticeable. I count the times a session I can make her squirm.

Today it was just two, but she really got a kick when I said that I'd tell everyone if I could to never enlist and to draft all the politicians instead, make them fight their own battles. I love whenever I can even get a chip in her perfectly robotic composure with my vitriol. I mean, she's gotta talk to how many jaded vets in a day, and it's me who almost gets her to lose her shit. I'm just that fucking good. Today was definitely a listen-to-Sami-ramble-and-hate-the-fucking-universe day.

Now I just hope it's a drink-so-Sami-doesn't-remember-this-misery-by-morning night.

Five bucks won't buy anything nice, but it'll buy two of something at the bodega. I hop off the bus and creep into the liquor aisle of the store and try and find something. Already I feel guilty, because I know you don't want this for me. Not because you don't think I can handle it, but because you're afraid of any possibility that I can't. And the smell. I don't remember what you mentioned as tempting symptoms that crawl in the back of your mind, but I know smell is second to taste. Ugh. I hate myself as I buy them but I resolve to get the shittiest kind possible so it doesn't remotely tempt you. I'm a shitty friend, I know, but you haven't kicked me out yet so I must be good for something. I don't really need the taste. I need the effects. Something to knock me out and actually make me giggly for a little bit.

I slam the two bottles on the counter. The owner, who I don't think has said a single word in the five months I've lived here, rings me up and takes my cash in the familiar process. I take the dollar in change and think for a second. No, I'm not gonna be a total bitch about it. I tell him to hold up. There's no line, and he doesn't really care, so I walk to the drink isle and get you a big bottle of Gatorade. Like a true athlete, you drink the stuff. You say you used to be sponsored by them at your peak, which is impressive on paper but, like with me, parts of the past you like to pretend don't matter anymore. But hopefully this communicates that even when I'm not, I'm looking out for you. Hopefully you are too.

I try not to think of old Mac getting his face busted in the ring for the sake of the sport. More things I drink to forget. I buy your Gatorade and walk the extra block home, but even by then I've already popped open the first beer. Things already get a little lighter when I climb downstairs to our apartment, first drink taken, preparing frenetic apologies when you open the door, looking both happy to see me and disappointed to see me this way. Sorry, Mac, but you're getting the altered version of Sami tonight. It's for the best for both of us, really.


	2. The Written Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac makes do, Sami makes plans

**Mac’s POV**

“I’m really, really sorry,” you insist as you drink. You seem as pensive as ever as you look around the room, vigilant against an unknown enemy. The days of the military are never as far past you as time would dictate. I hold your hand, but it’s limp and lifeless in mine, like a damp sponge. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I try and transmit some life into you, running my thumb along your pulse. You don’t react, and it concerns me, but I keep at it, because it might turn around and work someday.

I want to ask you what’s wrong, but I don’t want to make you tell me, so I keep my mouth shut and watch you, a stark piece of living performance art. Brave, right?

You finally force yourself to relax, even though it goes against the idea of relaxation. “Thanks,” you say, squeezing my wrist, “but I’m good.” You’re not, but I pretend to be convinced, and I let go of your hand. You grab your second beer, whereas I can’t find it in me to look at one. Just keep my stomach steeled and keep dodging. Guess I’m still brave in some ways but I’m running from it, I know I am. Have you run from anything? You’ve been vigilant at protecting others, and I’m just a guy on the wrong side of the tracks. Everyone needs a coach, I guess.

You take a large swig, repeating, “I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.” You don’t clarify what for, but any fool could notice how much I’m trying to pretend the drinks don’t exist, though you’re going to drink until you stop existing at this rate. I shrug, because you’re a more dominating presence in the room than the beer you drink, and you’re a strong enough deterrent for many things, relapsing included. The beer ceases to exist in less than a minute of uncomfortable silence. Thankfully two is all we have. One for you, and one for you.

You try and recline against me, pretending that you are inherently affectionate instead of inherently troubled. “Thanks, doll,” you say, head against my shoulder. It seems like a pillow to you when it feels like shattered glass to me. It still hasn't quite healed up, but I pretend it doesn't hurt so I can keep my lies to myself and you can keep your flaws to yourself.

“How’s school?” you ask suddenly, nearly leaping up, as if you’ve just realized how long it’s been since you’ve been interested in my goings on.

I shrug, lifting your head with it. “Literature’s pretty good. I’m trying to broaden my vocabulary, and nothing really forces you to do that like two-hundred year old books. It’s like they’re written in an entirely different English.”

You laugh. “Yeah, eleven-year-old me relied on a lot of abridged versions. When they say English is an evolving language... if they say that I dunno... I fuckin' believe it. I think CPS needs to be called on people who make sixth graders read original texts of Robert... Mark Twain... or something.”   
  
You laugh like the idea of what you said is the funniest thing in the world, and hell, I smile, because it almost feels like one of those days where we can pretend nothing is wrong, where the corny, cynical jokes feel natural. “Writing’s going pretty well too. I mean, I’m not exactly Shakespeare but I don’t really want to be.” I mean, I’m trying, but it sure as hell ain’t easy. I’m even trying to talk in better English than I did when I met you, but I’m still stiff.

“Just bullshit to get to journalism?”

I nod, even though journalism is just one of many possibilities I’m considering. Debates in my mind are best remaining in my mind. “Prereqs are a bitch.”

You groan. “Well, just keep marching along, Mac.” I could say the same for you; you’ve been in a vicious cycle since your deployment ended, and I don’t know how else I can help you but by being here and pretending everything is fine with you.

“It’s better than getting beat to shit for a few bucks,” you add absently, and shame flushes my skin to the point where I can’t believe you don’t notice. I don’t feel ashamed for keeping at the grind- you’ve already done more than enough putting yourself in harm’s way to take care of those you love that I’m more than happy to do the same. Part of me wishes that you didn’t care enough to worry about my well-being to the point where I feel the need to lie to you to keep you comfortable. Part of me wishes you cared enough for me to be honest. It’s an empty balance.

It’s quiet as I reach for my latest book and read dutifully. It’s _Lord of the Flies_. I think I read this when I was in middle school, and most of it flew over my head. Right now, I can keep track of where it’s going, but I find more and more that I don’t really care. Perhaps I was never made to be more than a ghetto punk with boxing gloves, but I feel nothing while reading this book. Whatever message the author thought he was sending falls flat because I just don’t care. I force myself to read through the page while you peer over my shoulder. I’m skimming at this point, looking for talking points that might be on the test or useful for a review. When I go to turn the page, you give a disappointed hum.

“You can borrow this when I’m done,” I tell her. Really, you can have it, because I don’t need it. Maybe you’ll make it worth something, because apparently this lit classic is too highbrow for me. I last another ten pages before my ability to care hits low reserves.

“Cool,” you say. “I remember… he used to have books like this littered all over the place.”

He, the invisible third presence in the room in a four person house only two people have ever lived in. “Did he?” I respond, my throat as raw as glass.

“Yeah,” you explain, like it’s nothing. “Just all kinds of fancy highbrow books in his office. And I used to think, oh this guy’s gotta be a pretentious prick. Then, once we actually started working together, it’s all basketball in sports bars, which is _amazing_.”

“So what were the books for?” I ask, actually kind of interested, holding the book tighter as if memories would invalidate it.

“That’s the funny part,” you say, laughing. “Like, he thought those books would impress me. But because I thought that was his thing, I tried reading them. And they were actually pretty good, ancient English aside. But it’s like…” you take a deep breath to keep from crying. “He almost lost me trying to put on that front, even though I tried to get into it. We entered it pretending to be different people before we realized we kind of liked what we brought out of each other.”

I smile, but it hurts me to think of what we don’t have anymore. I try and imagine Doc reading War and Peace, but instead I think of him reading the newspaper while watching me jump rope at light speed, teasing me for being so obnoxiously serious. At a point where he taught me everything I needed to know, but just wanted to make sure I kept on the up and up, until he couldn’t save me anymore.

I think I was happier thinking about her old boyfriend.

I set the book down reluctantly. I feel your gaze follow my hand, so I change the subject. “What’ve you been up to?” I ask.

“Still looking,” you reply. “Might get a call back from an office firm up the street.”

“Legit? Nice.” The prospect sneaks a smile onto my face.

“Of course, legit,” you tell me, scowling. “I mean, it’s secretarial but it’s something.”

“Definitely. Better than donating your body to entertainment.”

You laugh, but it sounds more like you’re clearing your throat of poison. “Yeah, I’m definitely done with the risking life and limb business.”

“Good.” The more you say it, the more sure you are, and the more relieved I am.

It’s silent, too silent, while we consider everything that’s going on. I really hope this works out for you, but I know not to get too excited too easily.

“Only problem is I have to wear a dress,” you crack.

“Aw, whatever,” I fire back. “You look nice all dressed up.”

The words escape my mouth before I can evaluate them. That’s the closest I’ve gotten to letting something slip. You elbow me as a response, but your face is hot enough to feel on my own cheek. Imagining you in your dress makes me think of the girl that I imagine you would be before you traded the blue dress for camo and a machine gun. I’m not sure if she even exists, you before the war, but it’s nice to dream about life being that simple.

“You still remember that night?” you ask, and I almost don’t hear you.

“Yeah,” I admit, and it’s nice to be honest for once. “I remember it really well.”

You laugh dryly, your voice cracked. There’s not much else to say. I don’t think all the booze in the world would make us forget it.

You’re nearly falling asleep on my shoulder. It’s sweet and makes me feel valued, but it also doesn’t feel like your intent matches my visions. Empty balances, empty scales.

I ask “do you need to go to bed?” You don’t respond, and before I know it your breath has changed from that of the living to that of the temporary dead. One eye closed, the other forever open, you’ve drunk yourself to sleep. I don’t know where you’re at right now, but I'd like to imagine it's at Early Christmas morning, the memories you want to remember. An hour that led to open hearts, that led to letting to and bottling up, that led to here.

I slowly, gingerly lift you up and set you back down on the couch, placing a pillow beneath you. There’s a throw blanket on the back of the couch I settle on you. Like a mother tucking in someone incapable of fixing themselves, I make sure you’re comfortable before I leave. You don’t look the part, still dressed in mismatched clothes from the back of the closet, with pale red hair wilted away against your cheek, and one eye forever staring at me from beyond, but there’s only so much I can do.

I grab a flashlight off the coffee table and turn it on, taking my book with me. As I turn the lights down I use it to guide my way to my bedroom, which isn’t too far away. I have to be careful, because this place is a mess left long untreated by two downtrodden people trying to find their way out. Honestly I think part of the reason I spend so little time here is to forget that we’re so broke we live in shit row and use a flashlight to navigate the hallways so we don’t use too much power.

I make it to my bedroom, stripping to my boxers and lying down. I’m not quite sleepy yet, but I really wish I wasn’t so awake. I try and calm myself, taking deep breaths, closing the world around me down thought by thought. I try and recreate calming songs in my head, letting them drown out any of the spare worries and loose strings I’ve yet to tie. Still, I feel too restless to sleep just yet. I wonder if the two bottles of beer were more of a sleep aid than they were an escape. I wish I could drink with such levity, without it destroying whatever it is I call my structure. The last thing a crawl back up needs is for me to leap back down.

At the very least, you’re down here fighting the world with me, but sometimes I wish you were in here with me, just to help me sleep. It’d be nice to enjoy your company with complete honesty, but I have other things I should be worrying about. Working on my book review, trying to force a writing piece out of myself. The match I have tomorrow definitely requires some sleep. I’m not at my prime anymore, and I doubt anyone remembers who I am enough to await my return. Just gotta stand as tall as five feet will let me.

I grab the book off the nightstand and use the flashlight to read it in the dark. The words slowly lose meaning over time, and become the trance I need to help myself lose touch with reality long enough to sleep. I sleep, and sad to say I dream. I’m in the ring, because even in sleep I can’t seem to get away from reality. I’m fighting against an unknown opponent. Usually in dreams, the way you expect it to go is how it goes. I wonder if I’m fighting against someone I know, but it turns out I’m fighting against someone I don’t know well enough.

Myself.

I don’t wake up. I’m barely shocked. I think even here I’m recognizing just how stale of a guilt trip my mind’s playing on me. Dream me fights himself to death, and the fight becomes a blur that matters as little as the book I can barely read. It’s not myself, it’s not who I truly am, but it’s who I need to be.

I wake up at 3am alone like nothing happened. I don’t feel rested at all, but I turn over and wait for it to take me again. It’s just too bad I haven’t done much good at leaving myself open to the things I want. Just keep going through the motions, not changing anything, leaving the scales empty.  
  
**Sami’s POV**

I wake up on the couch at seven to the sound of coffee brewing. I’m covered in a blanket with a pillow behind my head. It feels nice, even if I look like shit and am still in the torn-to-ruins clothes I fell asleep in. I almost don’t want to get up, but the idea of coffee is lovely, so I creak up to sitting level, tossing the blanket over the couch.

I peer over it to see if you’re in the kitchen. You are, humming and strutting around in a jersey and shorts, the same as you wore last night. You look like you got maybe four hours of sleep at best, and that those four hours cheated you out of any rest. Poor babe.

You bring over the cups of coffee just as we make eye contact. I feel a little queasy, but not overly hung over. Still, it’s kind of pathetic that two beers will still take it out of me. I used to knock them back easy and feel jack shit, drinking with the other captains and impressing even Eagle with how much I could hold onto. Now it’s just a cheap trick to get me to sleep.

“Thanks, Mac,” I tell you as you hand me a mug with a chipped handle and the logo of a nearby bakery uptown I’ll probably never go to. That’d involve us being a little richer than we are. This place wasn’t made for roommates in the first place, but I don’t mind sleeping on the couch to save a few dollars and what’s left of my sanity.

I take my first drink. There’s just the right amount of creamer in it to make it taste neither like tar nor a milkshake. You’re practically a coffee wizard. Yours is as black as the night, but you tough it out for the sake of raw caffeine. Whatever gets you through the day, I guess. No bullshit or pretense from the vantage point of being Mac Jones.

“So what you got goin’ on today?” I ask innocently. You seem a bit startled by the question, but I chalk it up to a lack of sleep.

“Not much,” you reply groggily. “Lit, as usual. A little work at the student store. Probably do some studying too.”

I nod. “Good to hear. Just keeping at it.” I look down into my coffee as I add, “and here I am just waiting for a call back. Crossing my fingers.”

You put your spare hand on my knee, and it’s so flat it’s like you forgot your fingers could bend. And it’s not like I’d mind even just the slightest bit more affection from you. “Don’t worry,” you say. “You’re doing your best.”

I am, I think. I’d like to think I’m not totally useless. I’m looking for a job and trying to keep myself going. It’s hard not to feel useless when you’re in college going through a bunch of bullshit for the sake of a better future for yourself and a financial aid check. I know that I should consider starting school, and that a bunch of veteran buddies of mine are doing just fine in there, but that’d involve knowing what I want to do with my life, and I just don’t.

My goals right now are “sleep peacefully, reconstruct, and be happy with life again.” And I reckon I’m starting to fill the gauge up, but damn does it still not feel like I have anything in there. You’d think letting go of such a severe burden would be easier, not harder, but I think it’s just a part of me now, a massive tumor filling the startling amount of space between my jutting shoulders.

The rest of the coffee drinking is quiet. It’s nice to have you next to me, just for the sole fact that I’m not alone. I’ve lost a lot of people in my life, but somehow you seem like you’re a safe enough distance from me to be permanent.

“You want another cup?” you ask me.

“All yours,” I reply, because you need it. You smile, finally wrapping your fingers around my knee for a spare moment before getting up to pour yourself a second cup, even though it looks more like you need a third or fourth. You don’t drink anymore, and you’re at the point where you can foolishly indulge my habits with a steeled stomach. I wish sometimes that you’d push back at me, show some care for yourself that you’ve spoiled me with. I’m still trying to fight for myself, but sometimes I wonder if you completely forgot how important you are.

I enjoy the silence and your company. You don’t have to do much, just share some space with me before I’m left alone. It’s a pleasant distraction; sleep without the nightmares. So much time has been spent like this, but I haven’t regretted a second of it. Eventually, so much time has passed despite it feeling like weeks and seconds that you realize you have to go. You grab your bookbag, which I’ve just now noticed is right next to you, and you wave a short goodbye to me.

“Later, gator,” I reply too quietly. I watch you walk out the door, offering one last smile. The room feels colder without you, and the living room stretches out like a battlefield against no one. Leave it to me to be shit for letting go; even as I try to escape the military I can’t help but look at everything like it’s my own personal war.

I catch the time. It’s only eight-thirty. I know I have to kill another two hours before catching the bus to therapy. That little tidbit hits me like a sudden gut-ache. Goddamnit, I just remembered we didn't finish the session yesterday. I'm making my therapist a fuckton of money, at least.

I decide it’s high time to get dressed regardless, walking into your bedroom where all the clothes are kept. As I step in, I end up tripping on a book. I shout louder than I need to since it’s just a book, immediately embarrassed. I survey my surroundings. Christ, it’s a mess. You haven’t given this room an ounce of thought in god knows how long. Then again, I know the rest of the house is in similar shape. Maybe I should clean some of this shit up.

First, I get dressed. I trade my stained Social Distortion T-shirt and baggy jeans for some black knee-high shorts and a tank top. I can already tell from what little sunlight beams into this room from the basement window that it’s not going to be a light and easy day. As I throw my clothes into the dirty clothes, I make a mental note to go down to the laundromat this weekend. I think we have enough in quarters to make it happen. I check the change jar on your nightstand. As I shake it, it makes enough noise to be reassuring. Yep, clean clothes this weekend. Awesome. You’re gonna love it.

Speaking of clean clothes, I pull out the gala dress I haven’t worn since Christmas. It used to be my favorite, and it still looks nice enough. It’s a pleasant midnight blue, fits my frame well enough, despite me looking like Paul Bunyan if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, but it isn’t trashy. I could wear it on the offchance I do get the callback from the job. I mean, it’d better work, because it’s the only dress I have, and somehow I doubt you have any extras. Not that they’d fit me anyways.

I hang it up on the hanger and settle into my new clothes. I leave your room, because even if this place needs a decent cleaning I’m not going to start there. I already feel intrusive enough looking at his empty, unkempt bed three sizes too large for such a little guy. I leave and pledge to start in the kitchen. As I trek through the hallway, I hear my phone ringing.

Oh, dear Lord.

I manage to catch it and flip it open just before the ringing stops. “Hellome,” I blurt.

“Ms. Christophe?” I hear on the other end.

“Oh! Mr. Handler!” I reply, putting on just enough cheer to not look as desperate as I feel. “It’s nice to hear from you again!”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Mr. Handler replies in a warm voice where every emotion is perfectly, enviably measured. “Do you have a moment of time?”

I have all too many, is what I want to say, but just as I reply, “definitely,” it hits me that he could just as easily be calling to let me know I didn’t get the job, and some professional, ice-cold corporate woman who knows more than a half-crazed soldier probably took my place. I swallow and let him continue.

“Glad to hear it,” Mr. Handler continues. “I just wanted to let you know that you’ve advanced to the next round of the application process.”

My breath catches, but I squeak out, “that’s great!” before I actually say that it’s bitching, my initial instinct, because this is very, very bitching.

“Excellent,” he replies. “We’d like to have you work for us for a three-hour shift today, starting at 11:30. This is to see how you function in the secretary role. You’ll be paid for your time, of course, regardless of whether or not you get the job. Does that work for you?”

Oh, shit. I look at the time. It’s 8:45. I can get there on time, but I know it’s at the expense of my therapy appointment. I quickly weigh the pros and cons, but I know that if I show any hesitancy I’ll lose the place before I even have it. I need this job more than anything else right now, so I say with forced, fake confidence, “I can definitely make it.”

“Fantastic!” he says. “So, I’m hoping you’ve learned enough about the conduct and dress code to show up as we need you. If you get here a half-hour earlier so we could prep you, it’d be much appreciated. Above all, just do your best and try not to overthink it. Too many people overdo it and they come off as overpromising. Just be natural, and you’ll do fine.”

“Absolutely,” I tell him, trying not to think of how many other women like me desperate for a place in this world have come begging and clawing at their door for a job.

“So I’ll see you then,” he finishes.

“You got it. Be there at eleven,” I finish, and he hangs up. I collapse onto the couch, trying not to lose my mind. I can’t believe that I made it this far in the first place. I'm a fuckin' natural at hiding how fucked up I am. Therapy disappears to the back of my mind as I jump up, too excited to contain it. Even if it’s just the prospect, it’s enough to make me cheer through the hallways and sing in the shower like a damned fool.

Eventually, I find myself in your bedroom, finding it weird to be dressing from the feet up in someone else’s room. Even if this is how it’s been since we became roommates, I still feel oddly vulnerable undressed in your room, despite how empty it is. Guess I’m worried you’re gonna walk in all of a sudden and stumble upon me bare ass like that. I throw my dress on, straightening and organizing it, looking as presentable as possible. I tie my hair up into a bun, miles better than the wilted mess it is on normal days. I look at myself in the mirror. I realize I could almost be mistaken for looking elegant.

It feels so weird to be dressed up again, but I like it. I feel stronger than I actually am.


	3. Put Your Best Dress On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac and Sami both remember what they wish they would forget.

**Mac's POV**

Exhausted and having retained virtually zero of what I was taught, I leave my writing class. Middling as ever. I'm just trying to maintain a passing grade, I figure that's all I need for now. Gives me plenty of time to rethink my path for the trillionth time. 

There's a newspaper on the bus bench next to me, left behind by the last run of people. Strangely no one else is here with me despite class having just ended. I guess people who live in shit row tend not to reveal it openly. I think I'd rather walk the three miles alone back home than take the bus here with these poor souls, but my body still aches from yesterday's fight, so I know this is the way to go.

Bored, I take the newspaper. As usual, I go straight to the sports section. I feel detached enough from the real world to keep from caring about current events. If you find anything worth talking about, you'll tell me, since that's all you read- waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for another war, even though you'll never have to go back. You've got your shackles to your past, I've got mine. 

I read about the new boxing champion to keep myself humble. Knuckle Joe's good for that. He's humble, he's got a good heart, and if we ever watch TV you can see the guy on kid's shows, being a good influence, saying no to drugs, never driving drunk, all the jazz I shoulda listened to. I wonder if he'd be embarrassed to meet me, the washout that used to be what he was. The influence to little boys everywhere until all the influences got the best of me.

I read about his match in the paper. He lost this one, but he's got a quote in here where he says “It was a good fight. I got knocked down, and I'm gonna learn from that. I'm not gonna let the people in my corner down again, because whether I win or lose, I'm gonna fight with all my heart.” I don't think you could make up a guy like this. I don't see how he can stand it in a society of fighters full of egos and overdramatic characters and the ability to piss away whatever they earn faster than they got it. I kinda want to write the guy, just say “Don't turn out like me.”

My eye catches a familiar name. Marcelo “Doc” Louis. Apparently he's the one training Joe. No wonder Joe's such a good sport who never knows when to quit. Doc's all about that. Fight with dignity, give it your all, and get up when your ass gets handed to you. And it can all go away, because fame's not forever. Doc's never been a fighter, just a coach. But he's got more pride and respect than almost everyone else I boxed, and definitely me after awhile. He never knew when to quit. He was trying to create a new wave of boxing, same as the old wave. Respectful, classy, clean opponents fighting for sport, not for fame. Goddamnit, I want to write him too. But I don't know what I can say that wouldn't come across as utter pig shit from someone who pissed away the final, most valuable part of his corner. 

I put away the paper before I can get too caught up into it. I stretch to get the kinks out of my aching muscles. I know my schedule is to meet up with Deeks, my AA mentor. He used to be my lifeline, a Cali transplant in a world way more bitter and hardened than his own. Now I check in with him just to let him know I haven't fucked up in the last... year and a half, two years, time slips away. Figure I'll meet him at my place, talk it over. It's probably a mess, and I won't have shit to offer him for food, but he never really cared about that stuff. 

Five quiet, empty minutes pass by before my phone rings. I forgot that there's still service on this thing. God must be having a merciful day. I answer it to hear back from someone I didn't expect. Don't know how he got my number, but I let it slide.

“Hey, Mac. It's Ike. I'm calling from O'Donnell's.”

I swallow. “Hey, Ike. What's up?”

As I should expect, he's straight to the point. “O'Donnell noticed I was here today and offered a pair of fighters a hundred each if we can get an exhibition match. Just a clean fight, no stock in winner or loser. Just entertainment. Can you make it over in an hour?”

I think aloud. “I'm a little fucked up from last match. How are you still standing?”

“I'd wager a miracle,” he responds. “If you're too out of it, don't sweat it. But like I said, this won't really be an actual match to win, so we can go easy. We're just showing off to drunk people.”

“For a hundred bucks?” I confirm.

“That's what I'm told.”

I think about it for a second. Leave it to me to shirk my duties for the sake of some quick cash. It's not healthy, but we don't have much time for caution.

Just can't seem to escape the ring after all this time.

“See you there.”

**Sami's POV**

It’s not until I’m on the bus back that I start to feel it. I think I did well enough at acting personable. I was respectful to all the people who came in, and could put on the mask of a functioning human being. I still type like a former English major (at least compared to most of the people on my Facebook wall that I haven’t visited in eons), and I filed everything properly like a damn pro. Yet, here I am on the back of one of the many buses old enough to creak like it’s close to falling apart, and I feel like a complete fraud, faker than my glass eye.

I remember the last time I was here dressed up like this, and I remember also feeling like a fraud. I was paraded around a charity gala like a kicked puppy, where people who had more money than I could ever imagine threw pennies into the donation jars on behalf of poor little wounded soldiers like myself. I ran out early (if 2 in the morning could be considered early) so I didn’t have a nervous breakdown and screamed everyone down in the way I wanted to, and took the next bus away from there, a flask of vodka hidden underneath the dress.

It was an old bus like this that I ran into you on. And things just sort of happened from there. Lots of confessions, lots of drinks on my behalf, lots of mourning those we lost, and some breaking and entering to top it off. I figured when I first thought I kind of had something for you, it was because I was emotionally compromised because I’d just cried over Eagle for the first time since it happened. Yet, here I am six months later, dressed up with no place to go on a hot June day, and I still wish you were here, calming my racing thoughts.

Whatever. I have bigger fish to fry.

I try and keep calm on the bus, even as the engine roars like the sound of a machine crying. It rattles against my malnourished back, and I remind myself to eat tonight. I haven’t had much of an appetite, and it’s easy to forget in a life that goes nowhere. Still, my shoulders stick out too far to be comfortable, and a gal cannot sustain herself on cheap beer alone.

I stretch my legs out onto the bar of the seats in front of me facing the window, but the plastic is barely any help, and I look even more like an awkward jumbled mess than usual. I try not to think, letting the noise of the bus cry for help for me. I keep rattling in place, trying to shake off the weight in my chest, and I regret not going to therapy after all, even with the job in mind.

I count the days until the anniversary. It’s the beginning of June, not even the second week. There’s about eight days until we hit the anniversary, and it really should be nothing, but I realize just how long it’s been since he took his last flight, and even longer since he was like he used to be. Probably even longer from when I was who I used to be.

Turns out there’s a lot of things you can’t go back from.

We pass the street where the new Veterans’ Memorial is, the one you and I got the first look into. The one where I thought I was saying goodbye to Eagle for the last time, even though now I realize I still haven’t let go. I hear therapy helps, if you’re smart enough not to miss new appointments.

I’m tempted to get off and walk around in there, and I’m shit for avoiding temptation, so I ring the bell just before we hit the stop. The bus screeches to a halt, jerking me forward. I hit what’s left of my gut on the railing of the seat, but I manage to stand up and withstand the pain. I slowly walk off the bus, ignoring the annoyed glances the other disheveled riders give me. I watch it drift away, bitching and bobbing out of sight.

Against my better instinct, I walk over to the memorial two blocks down. Thank God I don’t have to leap over the fence anymore, but I wish I didn’t have to contend with the meaningless passers by, many of whom look like they’re visiting a museum and not what’s essentially the final grave for people who were broken into too many tiny pieces to even fill a jar of ashes, much less an open casket.

I weave through them. There are only a few, but they’re enough to annoy the piss out of me. None of them look like they have any military affiliation, but I look like I just finished my job hand-modeling appliances on a game show, so I can’t bitch about that. As I surround myself with the names of all of those I either knew or never knew who gave their lives for a half-appreciative country, I find myself feeling more at ease than I anticipated. I’m standing amidst the memory of people who understand me, even if I can’t understand myself. I do my best to avoid the G section of last names, even though the man the death certificate knew as Armond Granger is the one thing I still think would fix everything.

My half-hearted serenity is shattered by a young man in a red cap snapping photos of the names with his camera phone. Way to miss the entire point of things. The flash reflects off of the obsidian and bugs me too much to keep silent.

“Put that away,” I bark at him. “Have some fucking respect.” No one turns around except for him, who gives me a confused look, like a cat who was rudely moved off of his windowsill.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just thought it was pretty.”

“It’s a giant gravestone,” I tell him, my voice rising in intensity. “This is all that’s left of these people. It’s not an art project.”

He shrugs, still not sure what he did wrong. I leave him alone, and he walks away. I probably was in the wrong- odds are, he’s just an impressionable teenager who thinks he’s an ace photographer- but it still reflects just how irritated I am that even now my fellow soldiers, past present and future, are treated like unrealistic art rather than the used and discarded participants in an ugly necessary evil. I collapse next to where I know Eagle’s name is, not even having to browse the names, trying to calm myself by remembering him in his prime. A prim, cocky peacock on the outside, a soft, pleasant songbird on the inside, but to the world, a fierce eagle giving his all for the country his parents immigrated to decades ago for his sake.

It doesn’t last, because I can barely remember what I was like in my prime, and that shackles my thought to the cold, war-damaged soldier the final days of Eagle held, to the point where suicide was almost an acceptable reprieve. I used to wonder if it was acceptable for me, but I don’t think I have the strength to touch a gun ever again.

I last another couple of moments before I begin to cry. It’s quiet enough to go unnoticed, but it seems to last too long. There’s too much grief in my heart to healthily flush out of one eye, and I know no matter how long I try to, it’s just going to fill up again. Who knew that grief could be compared to a hamster running on a wheel after a chunk of cheese he’ll never get.

I pull myself together so I don’t stain my dress, and stand up to leave. I try and forget I ever shed a tear, finding my way out. I notice the boy I hassled earlier watch me go, and feel even more embarrassed, so I start to run as fast as my heels will take me, until I’m as far away as possible from being a piece of performance art. But damn it, I hope that kid saw me. I hope now he gets it. Someone has to.

I find myself at the bus stop. The noise of the city isn’t loud enough for me. I’m stuck in a bubble, and I wonder how much of it is me running away from my own misery like I ran away from the kid, like I avoid eating, like I avoid assessing my own feelings, like I avoid allowing myself to be. I never thought it’d take effort to be alive again, but I try and focus on the things that come naturally. In spite of myself, I feel a seed of confidence, but lord knows if I can plant it.

I can't believe it, but saying something is the most I feel like I actually contributed to society in a long time. 


	4. Two Years, Give or Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac meets with his new mentor for a new age

I’m almost too exhausted to open the door, but I turn the key and creak it open. I see you in there, dressed in normal clothes that reflect a long, hot day. You’re eating a bowl of cereal with as much gusto as possible, as if you’re trying to avoid psyching yourself out. I see that you've chosen to go for the half-shade today over your bad eye as opposed to the glass eye that accidentally stares into everyone's soul. I go to take my book bag to my room, letting you eat. I shove it under my bed, feeling especially guilty today. I’m not sure what you were up to today, but as I return to the room, you seem flushed and anxious, like your guard is failing.

I slowly, cautiously take a seat next to you. You set your apple jacks down and swallow, saying “hello.” It’s in the voice that’s pretending to be casual, but your smile feels natural. I kick back against the couch, finding a funny feeling in my gut. You’re still sitting forward, t-shirt clinging to your chest like every breath clings to mine, especially now. I’m observing you for far too long, wondering if this is you in your natural habitat. You seem to have loosened up a bit, and I can feel it more than I can feel my own pain.

You finish your bowl, and I pretend I wasn’t staring you down. “Guess what,” you tell me. Before I can toss a guess at you, you finish. “I got a chance to try for the job.”

I smile. “Right on.” You giggle, so evidently proud of yourself, but a strange sort of euphoria and relief seems to be overtaking you, one that transcends the job. I can’t place it, and I’m not sure if I’m feeling it yet, but it looks like it could be contagious. I’m just happy to see you happy. Not just happy, but naturally happy. Not one forced by standard society, nor put on to make yourself feel stronger than you are, nor artificially added by cheap liquor. It’s a flash to you in the mythical former glory. The girl I fell for.

“Want me to wash the dishes?” I ask as you kick back.

“If you want,” you reply. “I was thinking tomorrow while I wait for the next call I’ll get some laundry done. We’ve got enough quarters, and it’d be nice to have some clean clothes.”

I grab the bowl and spoon, taking it into the kitchen. “That’d be great,” I respond. I turn on the water, washing the bowl in a familiar routine. I try not to show any pain, but my bones still ache. I compounded the fight with lots of walking and overthinking school projects. I finish the dishes and slowly return to the living space, trying to hide my pain. I’m used to the routine of hiding pain so I can function at least somewhat normally.

You turn your head towards me. “You okay, pup?”

“Tired,” I offer up half-heartedly. Fucking miserable is closer to the truth.

You hum sympathetically. “Exhaustion after a lucky day’s a sure sign you’re doing something of value. So you got that going for you.” You kick your feet back, closing your eye, trying to relax, but the silence speaks louder than words do. Something’s weighing on you, but there’s a certain sort of anxiety on the edge of your skin that suggests you don’t know what it is either.

We human beings are weird creatures.

On the turn of the dime, your entire presence changes. Your eye shoots open and you sit up, looking less like a dead body in training. “Mac, I just remembered the game’s on tonight,” you tell me. “Well, it’s on right now, but that’s still the first quarter, right?”

Sports. Yes. Perfect distraction. Usually how it works is we catch the last quarter of the basketball game as a special treat every week. It’s one of the many self-imposed limits two poor twenty-somethings put on themselves to save a few bucks. Ridiculous, yet effective. But I can tell you’re so on edge that you could end up getting sliced in half. I’m not sure why, and I’m not sure how, but I’m not sure how to ask. I would just like to see you a little more rested than you are.

“You know what,” I say. “We’re managing. We got a little extra cash from today, thanks to you.” You smile at the compliment. Good, because it covers up the mysterious extra hundred I earned today. “We should treat ourselves a bit.”

Now you’re full out grinning. “I am so fuckin’ down with that.” It’s like someone opened the door to the sauna and all the compressed steam is let out.

Your happiness chips away at my inhibition. “Yeah, you hook the TV up and I’ll go get us some snacks from the mini-mart.”

“Whoa,” you respond, getting up from the couch. “You’re not messing around.”

“No, ma’am,” I tell you, taking pride as you visibly become more excited, heading to the TV. It makes me want to promise you the world. “We don’t get nights like this all that often. I think we should actually enjoy ourselves for a change. Stop living like monks.”

You plug in the TV and turn it on, messing with the antenna. “I can get down with that.” I smile and go to get my pink hoodie. By the time it’s on, you’ve already got the TV set up. Record time, too.

“I'll be back in a bit,” I promise.

“I'll make sure this place looks livable in the meantime,” you reply absently, but you've already locked eyes on the TV. I wouldn't have it any other way. Besides, someone's gotta catch me up on the score and how it got there. I walk out of the door, facing the rising moonlight. The stars light my way, and the air is crisp and crackling with a midsummer chill. It's as clean a sensation as you can get around here.

I'm walking to the bodega when I see him. Oh, shit. That's right. I don't play dumb, I wave Deeks down from the other side of the road. He's listening to music by the bus stop, clearly looking pleasantly bored until he sees me. He doesn't even take his headphones off before he says “Yo Mac!”, walking across the street while not even paying attention to traffic, knowing cars will stop and swear at him. It's funny how this guy's supposed to be responsible for me.

He stands next to me and finally rips his headphones out. “Well at least you're up and at 'em,” he says, clapping my back. “But you know you always get me a little on edge when you don't at least call.”

I nod. “Sorry, man. I got strung up at work today. It was crazy.”

“Looks like it.” He notices how exhausted I look, looking me over in that way that suggests he knows me more than I do. “Yeah, I can understand if you can't meet up. Just ring me up next time. I think at this point you've earned my trust.”

I shrug, but say “Thanks man.”

“Seriously though,” he replies as we walk to the bodega. “Two years now. That's more impressive than you think. You meet a lot of people who can't go two weeks.”

“I've got motivation,” I explain.

“Your roommate?” he responds. It's a question, because Deeks never expects or assumes anything even though he's clearly the smartest in every room we're in together.

I nod. “That and going to school. I'm trying to find my path, but I gotta say, it's been tricky. Financially and emotionally. It's just been dry.” He's quiet, letting me talk more just before we reach the bodega. “I mean, I can tell she's going through something. She's...” I almost don't say it, not wanting to rat her out, but I gotta be honest about something. “She's been drinking again. She'll bring a couple of beers home every week or so. Usually after therapy. She never really tells me much about her past anymore, probably because she just doesn't want to relive it. I'm guessing that's why she drinks.”

Deeks laughs sadly at how much I defend you before he can get a word in edgewise, opening the door for me. The familiar electronic welcoming beep welcomes us “Yeah, that seems stressful,” he says. “And I think all of us have our demons to deal with. But I think she knows deep down that's a bad idea, and I know you know it too. Else you wouldn't have brought it up.”

I nod. “It's hard to talk about with her. Because she definitely drinks to cope, and only then really. So the root of it comes down to root of all of her problems.”

Deeks watches me sort through the shelves, looking for a bag of chips we'll both like. “You get lots of vets in AA,” he explains, as if I don't know, or am trying not to entertain the possibility. “PTSD's a bitch, and it's the kind of bitch with a million skins. I mean, I don't know myself, but...” He trails off as he starts looking for snacks for himself.

“Yeah,” I reply, hoping it drops. “Right now, we're just enjoying the night. Looks like she might have a job coming up. That'd be a miracle, to have some money on a consistent basis.”

“That's cool,” he says absently. “And you?”

I try not to think of my line of work, even as I realize I'm buying these snacks with blood money, only the blood's mine. I bullshit. “Just school, mostly. Getting by off of financial aid. Trying to find something more in the meantime, but Sam's telling me to keep to my studies. She really wants to find work for herself so I can focus on my education.”

“Sami definitely seems to care,” Deeks muses, picking out two bags of chips half my size. My eyes nearly pop out of my head as he puts them on his shoulders. Guess he's shopping for the month. He notices me gawk and taps my leg with his foot. “Wouldn't you think?”

“Oh! Uhm... yeah, definitely,” I say. “I think I'm like her pet project or something.”

“You don't move in with your pet project,” Deeks retorts. “Much less take such care in the relationship you're building. I don't know her and truth be told I can't make sense of her, but I know one thing's for sure, she cares about you. And I think if you talk to her about the problem you have, she'll understand it.”

I think of the frantic apologies she blurted as she entered the home with a half-consumed drink, already a little lit, and I nod absently, reaching into the fridge to grab a two-liter of Coke. Actual Coke, too, not second-brand bullshit. Nice. Deeks ends up getting a two-liter of root beer of his own. I grab a couple of candy bars on my way to the register, already imagining the look of euphoria on your face whenever you get her hands on a chocolate bar, sort of an understated “life sucks less today” glow. It's easier to imagine than Doc tearing his open right before a training session, knowing he didn't need to be the star if he could make me one.

Deeks notices that I've spaced out and, not without grabbing a couple of chocolate bars of his own, sets the stuff on the register to let me know that we don't need to talk any more. I set mine next to him.

“Sorry for not making it today,” I apologize again.

“It's all good,” he says again. “It looks like you're in a good routine, man. And you know where to find me if you need anything. Just remember that you both wanna take care of each other, but you gotta take care of yourselves too.”

“I will,” I respond. My thoughts drift as he makes conversation with the owner, who only gives very reluctant, passing answers to Deeks' genial conversation. Deeks has great people skills, but definitely gets too into the idea of a world nicer than New York City. This guy's the nicest store owner I've ever talked to in this town, and it's largely because he never speaks unless forced to.

I could always tell by his surfer shorts and his laidback attitude that he was a coast away. He's an archetype and a half, but one this city needs sometimes. I've had two big mentors in my life- one before the fame, one after. Deeks is both exactly like Doc and nothing like Doc when he wants to be. He's got Doc's genial sense of humor and easy to approach nature, but he's not a hardass like Doc when it comes to getting shit done. Not like no one else in New York City can fill that role, though.

I think of what he's said in a loose sort of way, as a concept of its own rather than something applicable. Deeks finishes checking out and I prepare to get our food checked out, until I hear him say “Taken care of.” I look at the food, a good twenty dollars of splurging, and look back at him, my jaw dropped. I think I vaguely squeak out a braindead “uhhhh” but I can't be sure.

“Happy two years,” he explains. I don't respond; if my jaw could drop any lower, it would.

I finally choke out “I thought it was just vaguely two years or so.”

“I think it was to the day about three days ago?” he thinks aloud. “Something like that. Honestly, the best thing I can see two years in is someone being so on-track that they don't rely on me. But I'm proud of you, kid. Enjoy the game. I've got a bus to catch.”

He claps me on the back and leaves a little too quickly, in that Deeks way where he tries to make sure no one can linger too long on him trying to do good in the world. I figure the best thing I can do is give him a quick “Thanks, man” because even as admirable as he is, there's still something about the way he doesn't want to dwell on doing good as anything more than a public service that relates to me.

I wish I was him. Just trying to fix what I broke.

Humbled immensely, I watch the bodega owner bag the giant sacks of chips and the other food and try not to show any tears. It's hard not to do when I'm thinking of your reaction when I explain how this all went, and the feeling of filling a shelf or two of our fridge and our cupboards for a little while. It’s largely junk, but it’s _something_.

I can't wait. I don't walk, I run, with the bags hanging off of my arms as I make my way across the street. I'm home in a minute, banging on the door a little too hard. After all, the game's going on. Your bootsteps are loud enough to hear from out here as you swing the door open. “Jesus,” you blurt. “Thought you were on fire.”

You notice the giant bags of food I got, and nearly choke on nothing. “Did you rob the place?” you ask. “Because that's pretty much the only comforting answer to this.”

I choke up just thinking about it, how we probably would have to rob the place to get a haul like this... and we got this as a gift. Either that, or I earned it. It's strange to think that I might have accomplished something worthwhile, even if indirectly.

“I ran into Deeks...” I explain clumsily, my breath catching. “It's my two year...”

Your eyes light up. I didn't think you'd understand everything immediately, but I think you got the gist of it. “Damn, babe,” you whisper, as if it was supposed to be an actual sentence. You see that I'm close to crying and you take my arm, bringing me in.

“Let's enjoy the game, hon,” you tell me. I swallow, let the tears trace down my cheeks, and clear myself of the emotion. It's time for something nice to happen- and it's because of both of us. I set the bag down, hand you Deeks' large chocolate bar, and the grin on your face makes every day of those two years worth it.


	5. Nirvana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sami wakes up and processes some things

I manage to keep my scream in my pillow as I wake up, expert planning as usual. Strangely enough this was a really abstract dream, but still enough to freak me out. I’ve had dreams that are a little too on the nose in regards to my life. I’ve had dreams that are like someone took my life and shattered it into jigsaw pieces. I’ve had dreams where everything is going too well, which honestly are the worst of all because then I wake up on the couch entirely too depressed. Dreams like this just knock me for a loop because it’s just a feeling with vague settings.

I remember being on a table propped up, like a serial killer. Couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could only watch and hear as others talked about me. I was at once a lab experiment, a spectacle, and a condemned woman, carted around like luggage while people talked about me like a story rather than the person who was right there, trapped in nothingness. And slowly bits and pieces hit my consciousness in the way only the fragments of dreams can, and I recall finding out that the condemned serial killer was me. Really, that’s not far from the truth at all.

I don’t know what I hate more- the nightmares or the fact that I have nightmares. It reminds me that I’m one of _those_ people. I really, really didn’t wanna be one of _those_ people, the mentally sick, the traumatized, the type you parade around galas as poor soldiers who suffered from the war people at galas probably sent you to. I was trained for years that when you fight something, you better kill it, but it’s been approximately forever and I still haven't killed what I've been fighting. I'm too exhausted to continue and too stubborn to die.

I sit up, blanket still lazily draped over my legs. I’m trying to go back to the happy place I was at last night. You and I never really care about which team wins or loses. It’s just nice to feel like we’re part of something. (Besides, I always cheer for whichever team is in the lead anyways so I end the game happy.) Kicking back, chatting it up casually with a couple of sodas and what have you, it felt nice. Right. Like things were normal, even though neither of us are normal.

And it's such a nice fantasy too. You coming home with all the food was so beautiful, because I swear to God you never looked more emotional. More open. More real. I just wanted to scoop you up into my arms and hug you and let you cry it out because I was so thrilled that you were happy, that you were happy because we were happy, because we were better. I owe Deeks a lot. And I know I can repay that by holding off on the drink around you. But... goddamn, with nights like this, I just want something new to block it out.

Cause the dream sneaks up on me, like a Polaroid photo being shaken to life. I’m not sure how much of it is real or how much I’m projecting, but I know for sure that feeling, of being bound and gagged and taken on a parade through my sins, only people thought it was a service. Help the vets, they say. Help people like this poor woman who fought for your freedom and lost her eye and her future husband. All I'm thinking is “Hi, I'm Sami, and I've murdered at least twenty people who look just like you.” It's not the nice version, it's not what people wanna hear, but it's the truth. It’s just something that’s tied to my heart, and I really can’t stand it, the idea of being alone and hated, only known for being another poor girl in a war bigger than all of us.  
  
I don’t exactly know when the fuck-it adjustment occurred, but I’m assuming it was on the way to your room. I don’t know whether or not you’re asleep, or if you’ll notice me there, or if I’ll even just be sleeping on the floor, but whatever. I am just really anxious and do not want to sleep alone. Like, even if you’re in the other room, it doesn’t count, because there’s still a gap between us that familiarity and time haven’t bridged yet.

You’ve left the door open, and now I feel a little shy about this rash operation. This isn’t exactly subtle or explainable in five seconds. Still, I’m here, and I’d rather be here than there, so I tiptoe in. Each step is like I’m waiting for a landmine, because we can’t have enough war analogies, right? I swear to God, my brain turns every little thing into a battle that I have to win.

I’m just trying not to fuck up here, as if my footsteps actually matter. I don’t want to draw your attention, don’t want to wake you. I just want to be camouflage, nothing but backing noise that settles here with none of the goofy emotions, oddities, and physical quirks that make me human. Just a presence being there. Maybe Eagle was onto something with the idea of nirvana, because nothing sounds more heavenly than absolute nothingness.

“Hey.”

I whip my head around so fast it’s a miracle it didn’t break off. Great. Not only are you up, it seems like you’ve been up, watching me move around like a defective animatronic. You’re reading _Lord of the Flies_ again, nearly at the end. Awesome, because maybe I need some lighthearted reading material to keep me occupied as well.

I try and play it off. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

I shrug. “What time is it anyway?”

You point at the clock with the flashlight. 1:30am. Fantastic, not even a quarter of the way through the night. You fuckin’ go, girl. I sigh, all of my energy depleted in an unappealing way. Like, not comfortable tired, but I’m-so-fucking-done tired. I-wish-I-could-just-disappear tired. Can-someone-just-shoot-me-now tired. Someone-help-me tired.

You pat the side of the bed next to you. I make my way next to you and sit down, hugging my gargantuan knees. You close your book and toss it off of the bed at your bookbag, which it hits and slumps off of. “What’s up?” you ask again.

I sigh, and it sounds a lot like that old bus. “I don’t know,” I admit. “It just… I don’t know how to explain it. And I don’t know if you’d understand, so…” Man, I should have just gone to therapy.

“I don’t have to understand it,” you respond. “You can just say it. And I’ll figure it out later.”

Mac, it’s when you manage to say what I need to hear in less than a couple of seconds that I really know you’re the real deal, beyond that of a roommate, of just some guy I live with. And if I was in a better state it’s those moments like that which make me want to take a hammer to whatever wall’s built between us and be completely honest for the first time in ages. But I am so not in the state for more than one manic episode right now, so I just try and find the words in the same way you do.

“Bad dream,” I say. “Really bad dream. Like, it’s the kind of dream where I leave it feeling mentally fucked up. I mean, it’s more than just flashbacks or bad memories or reinterpretations. Like, it’s dreams where my subconscious is judging me, and my subconscious is a raging bitch.”

You nod, not wanting to interrupt. Maybe not knowing what to say. Well, guess I have to keep talking. Fuck.

“Like… dreaming about it is one thing. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. I was there. I can get over that, push it back. But… then there are dreams where I really feel like I’m finally telling myself the truth I can’t face awake.” Oh boy, the tears already. I cannot handle this shit. “Look… I just want to hang out here for awhile. Is that okay?”

You nod. “Course. It’s your house too.”

I like that idea. I wipe my tears before they become too much of a problem. Before I can put my hands back on my knees, you lightly press on mine. I turn to look at you. You smile, and it’s then that I realize I’ve never once looked at you with both of my eyes, and never will. You’re pretty much a fixture in this part of my life now. I’ll never meet you when I’m whole- in head or heart.

I hope this much is enough.

I rest my legs, stretching them across the bed. Thankfully this giant bed can hold the two of us, legs and all. It further illustrates how much taller, longer, and more gawky I am than you, who comes in a perfectly compact size.

“You can sleep here if you want,” you offer like it’s nothing. Instinctively, my heart flares up out of both nerves and something in construction I’m still not entirely cognizant of. I smile, but stay seated up, my back against the pillows, arched against my elbows.

“I heard you,” you admit.

I groan, trying not to think back to my rude awakening, hoping it wasn't yours to share. “Yep. Course you did. I was just hoping that I didn’t end up waking you up too. Multiple times.”

You shake your head. “No, I’ve heard it before, but only if I’m already up.”

“You’ve never reacted,” I point out.

You shrug. “Just don’t want to be presumptuous. Figured if you needed someone you’d find me.”

“You won that bet,” I admit. “Just wish you’d put actual money on it. That way we could always have days as nice as tonight was.” You wince, and I immediately regret having shot my mouth off. Awkwardly, I tack on “sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” you reply. “I wish we did too. Maybe we will now.”

“I really hope so. I really hope I can start pitching in.”

You place a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve definitely not been a burden. I’m just happy that you might not be so restless anymore.”

“Yeah,” I reply slowly. “It’s just…” It’s just what? I just don’t know, but I know if I stop speaking for long my mind will default into its current visual bank. Now it’s not just the dream. It’s the kid at the memorial. It’s the therapy session I’ve been missing. It’s every battle metaphor that I default to. It’s the fact that I feel like in the past six months I’ve gone from zero to zero in a way that having you helps but doesn’t fix.

You don’t respond, but I kind of wish you’d make me speak. You’re too kind, too generous. I’m still waiting for you to push back. When I tie up the loose strings in my head, it makes a funky knot I’m not confident with in the slightest. I wish you could just slap the words out of my mouth like seawater drowning me from the inside out.

But you’re not that type of person yet, so I’ll have to improvise.

“I just wish… I could articulate what I’m feeling better than I do. I just feel it, and it hurts to feel all that I’m feeling. Sometimes I hate myself, sometimes I’m proud of myself, sometimes I feel like a new woman, sometimes I’m still the same wounded soldier I was so long ago, and every step forward feels like two steps back. And sometimes I really hate people for not really bothering to understand what it’s actually like for people like me, but then I realize I have no clue how to express it.”

“...that wasn’t expressing it?”

I push you lightly, and see you smile just a little. “Yeah, yeah, I guess it was. But, like, it’s so disorganized. It makes no sense, and it’s not really tidied up into something people can understand.”

“I don’t think it is something that can be tidied up.”

There you are, with words that are so simple they can’t help but make sense. “I guess,” I admit. I’m not sure what it means yet, but I am feeling emotionally exhausted, so I finally settle down on the pillows, facing straight up. I reach for the blanket that’s been tossed to the side and pull it over me, bunching my legs up underneath it and handing it to you.

“Thanks,” you tell me, settling down.

“You tired?” I ask.

“Getting there,” you reply half-heartedly.

“Can you stay?” I don’t know why I asked. I know your answer is yes before you nod. You settle down onto the pillows, setting the flashlight between us. I turn onto my side for the sake of my legs, facing you. You offer one final smile, and I try to return it. The light lingers on for a few more seconds, although it could just feel longer, until you turn it off.

Strangely, the darkness doesn’t feel as depressing and lonely, and the kinetic energy from your presence is both an anesthetic and an aphrodisiac. I sleep, and while it’s not entirely without event, my dreams are pretty blank. Mellow, soft, forgettable settings. Events that mean nothing. Little to no emotion outside of a faintly recognizable peace of mind. It’s not nirvana, but it’ll do.

I wake up when the sun makes its appearance through the cracks of the basement window. It spies on us and feels like a laser. I ignore it for now, even though I feel the need to block it out. It gives me the same sort of feeling that I get watching chase scenes. The instinctual need to hide for the sake of hiding is overwhelming, but I try and convert that energy into passion for the day ahead.

Still, I really don’t want to get up. This feels safe. This is easy. To stay here all day, that’d be super easy. Thankfully, you crack your eyes open, looking a little alarmed to see me.

“Oh yeah,” you blurt.

“Heyyo,” I reply. You laugh, and I find myself chuckling as well for a moment. It’s nice. I like this. I could get used to this. In fact, I think this is the kind of reality I could use right now. I nudge myself over, clearing a bit of the space. I end up rolling onto the flashlight, turning it on. The light’s not much under the laser ray of the sun, but the flashlight is something I can definitely feel. You gingerly take it out from underneath my body and gently set it on the ground, not breaking eye contact. You’re equal parts curious, alarmed, and amused.

And trust me, I am too. I mean, am I really doing this? Cause I know that I'll never quite be able to let every little bit of him go. There's still the scared little girl in my depths that just wishes things could go back to normal. But I don't think it can be easily explained. It just feels like the right way to go. It's not like he expected me to hang on. It's easy to idealize death when you're nearly dead every day. We promised if one of us went, the other would move on without guilt. But I'm not guilty. I think I just needed someone. Anyone who was right. And I think you're right.

Christ, I am so bad at this. Lord knows it’s been awhile. Even if I planned this I don’t think it could have gone any better, because I can’t help but be me. But it’s me you’ve known for this long, so what the hell.

“Listen,” I say. “This is going to seem stupid, but…”

“Yeah?” You respond as sincerely as ever. Looks like you’re no good at this either.

I scooch up just a bit closer, enough so our legs are barely touching, just to see if the idea resonates with you. You don’t move away, and in fact curl up a little closer. Oh, I like this development. I drape one arm over you and go in for the kill.

It’s amazing just how much power a kiss could have, to communicate something unspeakable, to plant the seed that’s germinated for all too long, to build something new. I don’t go for the tongue; hell, I don’t even kiss you on the mouth. I manage to hit you on your brow, leaving one soft kiss. A sort of hello, if you will. It’s been awhile since I’ve fired a gun so I’m not exactly at my prime markswoman years, but for having only one eye now I think I still fired a pretty good shot.

Then you have to go and not react at first.

It’s amazing just how much risk a kiss could have, to sidetrack a familiar dialogue, to leave something in the system one isn’t prepared for, to destroy everything you have for the sake of building something new. I look into your eyes, not sure if I cut the right wire.

“Yeah,” I admit. “Like I said, might have been stupid.”

“Your aim is off,” you tell me. You’re blushing, but you keep eye contact, trying to keep in time.

“Whatever,” I reply, annoyed that you had me so worried. “Go easy on me, I haven’t fired off in ages.” Despite my annoyance, I can’t believe this worked. I cannot believe this fucking worked.

This time, I manage to hit the bullseye, kissing you on the lips. You return it, just the little precocious kiss one makes when establishing contact. It’s just a second, but it’s a long goddamn second.

As we let go, I see you in a different light. It’s the same Mac I’ve grown to know, but now it’s like I’ve met you again. Because if you mean this, if this is real, everything feels limitless. I hold your eye contact, and slowly wrap one leg around yours, because I assume that’s how people do it when there’s actual time and motivation behind the whole idea of seduction. Honestly, I don’t know, I really don’t, I guess that's part of my charm, but some things can’t really be tidied up. Especially myself.

_Your move._

 


	6. Ducklings and Swans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac goes forward, Sami tries not to slide too far back

**Mac's POV**

It’s like I’m back in middle school all of a sudden. I’m pretty sure everyone in my class senses it. I’m not exactly a standout classmate to begin with. I’ll speak when needed, pitch into the literary discussion when I need to, and turn in my reviews on time, but no one would mistake me for an honor student. Just another broke blue collar student trying to make a decent living. Now I’m so buzzed off of this emotional high that I can barely focus on whatever my teacher’s before. I mean, before I could hide how little I cared. Now, I’m spaced out so clearly, red as a boxing glove, my mind in places that I’m definitely not sharing on the board. Really, if I didn’t have to show up, I wouldn’t, but you told me I should probably go anyways and stick it out. At that point, I think I was beyond the position to argue.

My teacher walks over the board and erases it, wavy white hair getting in the way, and informs us that class has ended. I realize that I have barely kept track with anything my teacher has said, nor have I spoken up. Odds are, I’ve been sitting here in the third row this entire time with the same stupid dopey lovestruck smile staring at the wall. And here I thought that was the kind of stuff that only happened in movies and cartoons. Maybe I do need to be reading more.

I hoist myself up, trying to be inconspicuous. I lift up my book bag and try to stride for the door before she calls out, “Mac, can I steal you for a second or two?”

Stealth is not my strongest suit.

I keep my exasperation on my tongue and walk over to her podium. “Hello, ma’am.”

She gives me a light shove. “Ros. My name is Ros. I know you’ve not been paying all that much attention today, but I hope you’re not sliding backwards.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, Ros. Been preoccupied with life matters. It’s been a little crazy here.”

She nods, giving me a reassuring smile. “Mac, we’re adults. Life matters happen. And I wouldn’t harass you if you weren’t already giving perfect attendance and turning in all your assignments. I just wanted to talk to you about the review you turned in. Assuming you took a look at my critique?”

I realize I’ve held the graded _Lord of the Flies_ paper in my hands without having looked at it since I walked into class. She smirks. “Of course you didn’t. Well, hate to be the bearer of bad news.” She flips the paper over to show me the grade. A solid D.

“Oof,” I blurt. Ros nods understandingly.

“Yeah, as I said earlier, most people who get a D usually don’t even try, so neither do I. Those who try and don’t succeed are those I’m concerned about.” She leans against the desk, sitting on it, so I follow suit. “I was just curious to know if there was anything you were struggling on.”

The obvious answer runs through my head. _Well, it’s hard to focus when my head is pounding because I voluntarily throw myself into a boxing ring even though my glory days have long passed so I can make sure we can keep ourselves afloat._ I don’t have time for all of that, though, so I give the second most obvious answer before I can help myself.

“Honestly, I really hated the book.”

Am I supposed to say that? Well, I did now. I realize what I did and I sit there a little too slack-jawed, worried that I just dived into even hotter waters. “Sorry,” I reply. “I didn’t mean to-”

Ros puts her hand up, stopping me cold. She moves it to my shoulder, trying and barely succeeding to get me to relax a bit. “I could tell that you didn’t,” she says. “That’s not my problem. My problem is, why did you pretend that you did?”

“...I didn’t know you were allowed to, like…” I shrug. “I didn’t want to be disrespectful.”

Ros shakes her head. “Therein lies the problem, Mac. I don’t think you understand that no matter what the book or how respected it is, you are not required to like or even respect it. That’s the point of a review. You share your opinions, and give us valid reasons for them. I could tell easily that you didn’t believe a single word you’d written.”

I look away. “Well, I believed that those were things people could find appealing about the book.”

“This is your review.” With that, she hands me the paper. “You say what you need to say.”

“It’s that easy?”

“That easy. Keep that in mind next time.” With that, she gets up and goes behind her podium again. “Other than that, I think for the most part if you keep from drifting in class, you should be decent. Although on that matter…”

Oh boy. I’m already starting to flush.

“This is going to be an odd question, but are you still boxing?”

I’m thrown off, but not in a way I expected. Despite my brief rise to fame, few recognize me. I was a flash in the pan athlete, a one hit wonder undone by his own faults. I don’t have the lasting power worth recognizing. I’m as relevant as Right Said Fred at this rate, so being recognized nearly knocks me off my feet. I don’t want to be recognized after the way I went out, but I reckon it’s a little late for that now.

I try and play it off, as if. “Why do you ask?”

She looks away, focusing on gathering her things. “Somedays you show up to class in rough shape. You’re bad at hiding it. I used to be a nurse, you know. I don’t mean to assume anything. I just want to make sure you’re doing okay.”

I shake my head. The last thing I need to do is get my teacher involved in things. The less people I have worrying about me, the better. “It’s all good,” I tell her, trying to head out in a way that doesn’t deliver a nonverbal _fuck off_. “I really appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.”

“Just take care of yourself,” she calls after me, sounding only a tinge remorseful. I’m gone, my shitty review in my hand, a symbol of my own inauthenticity done for someone else’s benefit. What it tells me should be obvious, but what it represents is too twisted and tangled to sort with one simple metaphor.

I walk through the college halls, trying to find my way out. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut, like a cancer eating away at my infrastructure. I think it’s my body trying to tell me when I’m fucking up, but all pain feels the same nowadays. I know another match is coming up tomorrow across town, same as ever. Same time, different place, same fight, different face. Apparently this is supposed to be a place where people can meet talent agents and hit the big time. Yeah, as if I could use that. I just care about the handful of cash this'll net me. It’s a depressing reality, but life never promised to be easy. When it was easy, I pissed it away. Maybe I’ll get something out of a hard slog.

That's what Doc would say.

Fuck, I should write him. Say even a fraction of what I need to. I owe him a lot.

My thoughts sail away like a balloon as I'm waiting at the bus stop, anxious to get home in a way I haven’t felt in ages. I don’t know what you meant to me- our words were limited after our first kiss for obvious reasons- but I don’t know if you realize you’ve transcended simple seduction. Everything bubbling under my surface used to be a machination of parts me of I couldn’t control, and it’s pulled my heart from my chest, jumping out like a Xenomorph.

(Clearly I am not skilled at romantic comparisons, but I’ve always just gone off instinct, for better or worse.)

I thought I had a new friend in you, the only one I ever had. What started as a powerful Christmas present has turned into something I can’t help but see as the anchor of this shallow, difficult life. We’ve become each other’s oasis in the storm, so maybe it’s necessity that drives this, but I know I can’t let this chance pass me by. I want you in more ways than I think even I can comprehend. Part of me finds myself ridiculous for this, but hell with it, you’ve already shattered anything left of my defenses. My heart’s hammering in my chest in anticipation for any moment I can steal with you, to view you in a fully realized light.

I know one thing’s for sure- the match can wait. Probably cancel it in the morning. I have more important things to tend to. If only this bus wasn’t taking so damn long. These slow, broken down creatures practically begging for mercy are a completely inadequate transport, but it’s all we have for now.

I like the idea of a nicer future than where we started.

**Sami's POV**

“I understand,” I blurt out before I shut the Tracphone, avoiding the rest of the phone call and the awkward, meaningless niceties. I slump on the couch. Damn it. Back at square one.

Against myself I really fell for the idea of entering the workforce again, which is kind of pathetic that I’ve let my standards fall so low. I don’t know, I’m just losing my mind being here all day. When a day is exciting because you get to leave to do laundry, that’s when you’ve hit a new low.

For what seems like the twelfth time this week, I’m close to tears again. This just isn’t right for me. I’m drowning in my own inability to get back on my feet, no matter how I try. I don’t want to be reduced to making laundry and cleaning house for the rest of my life. That isn’t me. I mean, this place needs to be tidied up, good Lord it does, but then that leaves nothing but walking around, reading Lord of the Flies and waiting for you to come home.

Growing up as the gangly, socially inept, nasally pubescent accident that I was led to lots of being compared to a duck. Well, ducks aren’t generally known for their statuesque height but I see the idea. Puberty took its time on this specimen. I was always the super gangly, super awkward, super weird-voiced and therefore super quiet kid who never fit in anywhere except your latest mockery. And I thought as I grew older and actually started looking mildly like a grown woman (though mostly like a freakishly tall sixteen-year-old), that my Cinderella story would come through.

Just like Pops before me, I was going off to the military. All bravado, too. No one would laugh at me again, because I'd be a hero. (Cry for my naivete if you must). Hell, I did well for myself. I became a goddamn squadron commander over a half-decade's time. Met myself a nice flyboy and fell in love. It was kind of a fantastic story. Only... wait, never mind. Fuck you, Sami, you're still in the army. Everything falls apart, and you’re no longer the admirable war hero, just another duck stuck around a bleak looking pond waiting for someone to throw bread crumbs at their pitiful souls. Now that my uniform is off, I’m not the swan anymore, just another ugly duckling.

Well, when’s an ugly duckling get to fly, for fuck’s sake? I don’t care if I’m ugly or not, or if I stick out or not. I just want to do things. Be someone. Not a famous someone. Not a model, a scientist, a revolutionary. I just want to be more than a broken bird standing on the corner of a dead-end street waiting for an old, dying bus.

Kind of like how I’m stuck in my own head, I find myself already holed up into myself when I hear the door open. Head wrapped in my arms, staring down my toes, knees bunched up to my chin. There are probably posters of me for antidepressants, which my therapist has certainly recommended. I make a reminder to schedule an appointment for tomorrow as your footsteps announce your entrance. I hear them as they imprint the carpet on your way over to me. You sit on the couch next to me, slowly moving your arm around my back, all too cautious when you’ve lost all right to be cautious.

“What’s up?” you ask. You sound sweeter than usual. I’m not sure whether or not to take it as authentic.

I groan. “Bullshit as usual. Laundry’s in the room.”

I expect you to get up and deal with that. My bullshit’s nothing new and I’ll talk about it when I feel less… I don’t know, pouty. Instead, you stay there, arm around my back, slowly rubbing my shoulders. Mac, you’re no masseuse, but the effort’s sweet. Give it time, you’ll learn my body better, and trust me you'll need time with this hollow contraption.

Still, you’re quiet to the point where I’m not entirely sure if you exist. Probably because you still don’t know if you should push me into answering, when the answer is, yes, you should, because otherwise I’m just going to be caught up in my own bullshit all night, and that will be significantly unfun for both of us.

Damn it, when did I become my own bunker?

You notice the shoulder thing isn’t working very well, so you stop. Finally, after a few seconds where I could only imagine you staring at the wall slack-jawed, you say “seriously, something seems wrong.”

“Mm?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Mal,” you push on. Not too hard, but not letting up. Nice start, Mac. “Plus I think we’re far beyond being nervous about things to each other.”

I can’t help but grin, just a little shy for some stupid reason. “True,” I snort.

You become a heater next to me. “Not just that,” you choke out. “I mean that we’ve pretty much talked about and shared everything. At this rate if you think I’m going to be annoyed at you, you’re kind of silly.”

I sigh, because now I remember why I’m upset. (I spiral, it happens). “I didn’t get the job,” I choke out, trying not to get emotional. I’d rather be pissed than sad.

You hmm knowingly, but I know you’ve got to be at least a little disappointed at how it worked out. “Damn, I’m sorry. That really is…” You hit a wall trying to find the right word and settle on nothing, but somehow that’s more damning than you think.

“It really is many things,” I reply bitterly. “But it’s whatever. Just fuck it, I’ll try again tomorrow.” I finally unfold and move to stand up. “Dinner?”

You stand up to and follow me, and now I’m really curious, so I let you. I’m at the fridge when you place your hand on the side of my face. “Samantha.”

Samantha? Shit, I didn’t even know you knew my whole name was Samantha. Has that ever slipped? Was it a guess? Why are you using it? These are thoughts that run through my head to the point where it takes me a second to register your presence. You’ve turned my face softly to look at you, and even though it really shouldn’t be it’s actually strangely comforting.

“Heyyo,” I blurt again.

You laugh. It’s cute. “Hey.”

We stand like this for a second, just taking each other in face-to-face in a way that we’re just now determining inbounds. Finally, you break the silence.

“Fuck them,” you say like the literary student you are. “You’ll find the right path.”

“You say that,” I reply. “I dunno. It’s just starting to annoy me.”

“Just don’t let it get you down,” you reply.

I open the fridge, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like the surface of the sun in here. “I don’t know,” I say as you let me go and I start looking for food items. Sadly we have little not sandwich related here outside of Deeks' sodas. “I really just am starting to feel completely useless.”

“Well, that’s just silly.” Oh, bad call there, babe.

“No, it’s not,” I bark back. “It’s not at all silly.” You don’t respond, but I can tell you’re caught off guard. I take the silence as opportunity to start ranting, pulling the sandwich ingredients out. “Mac, it’s starting to drive me nuts just being here, trying to take off.”

I untie the bread bag. “You know, you’re doing your thing. I want to do my thing, but it’s hard because every time I try and get a job I end up getting shot down.”

More war metaphors to go with the mustard. “Like, I always had the idea that I’d leave the military and I’d be good to go. You survived, go back to living. But now it’s harder than ever, because I am no longer a normal human being.”

I throw on the lettuce, which may or not be frozen. “And the world, they just want normal human beings here and soldiers over there. Trust me, Mac, after you become a hired killer, you no longer qualify as a normal human being.”

Throw on the generic nondescript meat. “Honestly, some days I almost wish I was back over there, because at least I was serving some purpose, rather than just staying here alone, watching the world go around me while I do the laundry and…”

Of course.

I slam the top pieces of bread on and slump over the sink. “...make fucking sandwiches.”

It’s silent for a few moments. Samantha Christophe is still a grade-A sniper, now of romantic intents. You reach around me to grab your sandwich, so I figure I may as well grab mine. “Aha,” you say. “That makes sense. Uhm… sorry you’ve been feeling so shitty.”

As clumsy of a reply that is, that’s really all I wanted to hear. We plop on the couch and start eating. My sandwich tastes particularly angry, but it’s actually kind of nice at the same time, to be able to go from emotional exhaustion to casual eating on the couch. It’s the kind of dynamic I hope we don’t lose.

“Just for the record, though,” you say in between bites, “if you’ve ever felt like you’re a burden for what we have going on here, totally don’t do that.”

I steal a glance at you as I swallow. “Really now? Well.”

“Yeah, I’m just saying,” you continue. “It’s like what Deeks says, y’know. You can’t do it alone. You gotta take care of others and yourself. And with everything going on with me, I burnt a **lot** of people.”

“Mmhmm,” I reply, mouth full. Those were probably words before the food got in the way.

“So the fact that you’re still here, and you’re completely just… like, sympatico with me, I’d probably have just said fuck it awhile back.”

I stop chewing for a moment and smile. “That’s actually kind of sweet,” I admit.

“It’s legit,” you say, putting your plate down. “I’m one of those guys who thinks everyone needs someone. Just someone. Like, one human being that gives a shit that isn’t obligated to. Someone who actually finds being around you worth their time. If you do that, you’re not complete dog shit.

“You know, this shitty apartment won’t last forever. And we’ll spend whatever money we make. And even if this whole journalism bullshit works out, they’ll be in the papers one day and gone the next. All a good companion has to do is not fuck you over and not die. There are plants harder to maintain than that, and way less worth it.”

“You sure you’re not thinking of just going full writer?” I ask, leaning against your shoulder like a downed power line. “Cause that was poetry, in a really strange way.”

You shrug, bobbing my head up with it. “I dunno, it’s just the truth.”

I smile. “Well, those words mean more to me than most of the pretentious hippy dippy bullshit poets throw out there.”

“Think I’ve lost the ability to refine my words about a hundred punches to the head ago,” you joke.

“That’s what makes you the sweetest man in New York City,” I reply, wisely adjusting so my arm drapes over you and you’re the one leaning against me. There, much more ergonomic. “Just the inability to bullshit. You’re almost like a…” I stop short. You look up at me. “I’ll figure it out,” I admit.

“Cool cool,” you reply. We sit there, cuddled up with our misshapen selves against the couch, nothing going on, nothing left unsaid despite the complete silence. I like this. It’s peaceful. It’s real. It’s natural. I really think this could work.

I give myself a lot of shit, but at least my instincts are as sharp as ever.

I kiss you on the top of your head in a way that says look up, doofus. You tense up in the right sort of way. Good. I wrap my arms around you in a much more involving way. Simple ergonomics is out of the question. You get the hint, which I didn’t think you’d have to be telegraphed, but I guess you’ve still got a little gentleman in you. I finally catch your lips, and somehow the disjointed positioning works. We kiss for a full minute before we even think to readjust.

“Right here?” you ask, just now noticing we're not in bed and that I'm already working to shed my shirt. .

“Why are you questioning?” I reply, throwing the t-shirt on the TV or something in that direction.

You stop talking. That's good, because sometimes we can't say everything through words.

We take things slow, and it’s maddening in a way that doesn’t hurt my mind. I’m spaced out mentally, only an embodiment of sensation. It’s a little akin to flying, and it’s about time.


	7. Punch-Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall apart

**Mac's POV**

I’m still a little restless, waking up at six in the morning after a shallow night of sporadic sleep, but it’s the waking hours that count anyways. Honestly, if I didn’t sleep I prefer the state of near-sleep where you’re here wrapped up with me like messy shoelaces. It’s peaceful, and I’m in control of my own mind, which is always preferred. I think you’d agree.

I don’t have to get up until seven, but I don’t want to fall back asleep. I’ve been having very disjointed, cryptic dreams about nothing in particular. I guess it’s a step up from your subconscious stealing your sleep to bully you, but mine remind me of too many drunk nights that I’m terrified I’ll fall into again. At the very least, they’re enough to keep scaring me on the right track, to make me less scared of the waking hours and all the traps they set for me.

I’m buried into your chest because of our height differences. Part of me still feels irrationally uncomfortable that I’m violating your space, but at this point I really shouldn’t. Still, I adjust out of respect, moving up to your face. I don't know, I'm not usually this classy a lover, but I'm trying to do it right. And I guess more of this is theory than actual experience. I was a dumb kid, after all, and I think my life since then has been repentance for how I used to be.

Your mouth opens, pushing against my head. I hear you yawn and stretch, your wingspan reaching around me before you wrap your arms around me again.

“Heyyo,” you say groggily. I laugh quietly to myself. It’s cute in a way only you can manage.

We don’t talk for the next half-hour, taking in each other’s presence. I move my head up to perch on your shoulder, and you lie on the pillow, your breath registering in my ear. You’re silent, motionless aside from your easy breaths, and even from here I can feel your smile. The world is quiet here, and I think the silence is all we need right now. My thoughts are barely there, and you’re floating on the bed beneath you, completely content, your ghosts and demons temporary exorcised and my spirit finally at rest.

I wasn’t sure where we stood, or lay, until right now. My feelings for you had developed slowly, cautiously. The need to keep you safe was instinctual, and the need to keep you in my life was there shortly after. It was the need to keep you happy, to make you feel valuable, that grew into my desire to keep you in my life as a permanent fixture. It was that same desire that kept me from the desire that kept me locked in my own cage, always at arm’s length, not wanting to chase away the one thing I had. Even from the germinating moment of our first kiss, to the first few times we slept together (okay, that’s way too formal a way to put it but something about us has to be), I still wasn’t entirely sure if you wanted anything more than that. It’s the quiet moments like these that really say everything. I don’t ever want to let you go, but I don’t know if I could get you to let go of me either.

Just before seven, however, we make a silent agreement to finally get up. I guess it makes sense, and the blankets are starting to dig into my skin and make me feel twitchy. You let me go and roll over, kicking your legs and hoisting yourself up. You’re on your feet, although you still look pretty dazed. I can’t even imagine what I look like, so I won’t.

“Coffee?” I ask.

“Coffee,” you squeak out before another yawn.

We walk out of the room. The hallway’s still a bit messy, and I make a mental note to clean it when I get home today. All in all, though, things look like they’re starting to get somewhere. Even if it is out of boredom, you’ve done a decent job at making things a little brighter here.

Usually in the morning one of us is on the couch while the other brews coffee. I don’t know whose day it is today, but we’re both hovering around each other as the coffee is made. It’s absurd in a pleasant sort of way. You grab the creamer, I add the grounds, you pour the water in, I grab the mugs. It’s not necessary, but I doubt either of us really care.

We stand by the mug as the coffee brews. We still barely talk, standing near each other and looking at the coffee brewing like we’re watching the game. At one point you point out, “I think we actually fucked each other’s brains out.” I can’t help but laugh in agreement, but it works for me.

The coffee finishes brewing, and we both pour our cups before finding our way back to the couch. The sun’s finding its wings through our window, shining down on your face like the Virgin Mother. It’s a little too idyllic until you accidentally splash a little coffee on your shirt and swear, as if to remind me of who I’ve fallen for.

It’s still quiet as we finish our coffee, the distant whirring of the refrigerator and our own breathing the ambiance of the morning. The peace is like a prized vase neither of us want to touch lest it break beneath our fingers. I wish I didn’t have to leave. I wish I could stay here for longer, never leave if I could. It’s too perfectly alluring. This is too rewarding. For once, it feels real, and not without substance.

I can tell you feel the same way. I rarely see you with your eyes closed awake, and very rarely is your smile not a smirk, but there you are. You lean back against the couch, breathing peacefully. I almost wonder if you’re falling asleep again. I take the opportunity to look at the time. It’s twenty past, and the bus gets here fifteen before eight. I consider not going today, but I never cancelled the match, and it looks like we’re going to need the money while you keep looking for a place to work.

I break the silence. “Gotta leave soon.”

“Yeah,” you say, disappointed. “I know.”

I put my hand on your shoulder. You lean your head over it like a housecat, your hair splayed on top of it. “Good luck today,” I say. “With everything.”

You look over at me, eyes ablaze, skin flushed. “Thanks,” you reply. “Although it’s just therapy today. Therapy and housecleaning. Tomorrow I’m back on the hunt.”

“I know. Still wish you good luck.”

“You’re a sweetheart.”

You lean over to kiss me again. My initial intent to make it short and sweet disappears in a heartbeat, as I pull you over and hold onto you so close my arms nearly pop off, and you do the same, nearly clawing into me. I lose track of time until you let me go, pulling away, looking like you’ve just had a workout, completely embarrassed.

“I swear I’m going to stop doing that shit everytime you leave,” you promise, although it sounds like it’s not me you’re promising it to. I nod, but smile as I stand up, doing my best to reassure you in a way that doesn’t seem condescending. Before I get too caught up in this crazy feeling again, I walk out the door. “Later, babe,” you call after me.

“See you tonight,” I offer. The good feeling we've kept going all morning lasts me all until the bus stop, when I realize where I'm heading. I sigh, trying to keep my head up even though I know that I've started this relationship with almost everything right, and then one thing going very, very wrong. I hate lying to you, and I wish I could come clean, but I'm in too far deep to come out now. I've just gotta find a way to nip it in the bud.

The bus picks me up faster than it usually ever has, although time could just be flying. After all, it feels like I'm at this new gym faster than it actually is. Goddamn, it's eight-thirty and it feels like I just woke up. At least I've got my game face on and my bag ready. The ring's open, there's a row of boxers waiting on the sidelines for their big break. And here I am just trying to keep from smelling the beer being handed out to the row of nondescript talent agents, keep my head down, earn my fifty bucks, and forget this ever happened.

Fuck, it smells awful. And wonderful. I clench my fists, hoping I can beat this temptation out of someone. Get into the sport, just fight until your brain stops processing stupid human decisions. I take a seat next to Ike, who I'm honestly not surprised to see here. He regards me with a smile. “Surprised to see you here,” he says. “I thought you were keeping it low-key.”

“They pay big,” I explain.

“If you do well enough, they pay incredible,” he replies. It's not the response I expect. Usually you get people who don't care about the money. They just wanna play for the sport. For pride. Even for fame and bitches. But a career isn't usually seen as a career. I mean, here I am just fighting for table scraps, so I can't judge. Ike just intrigues me.

“Yeah,” I say. “They do. Just be careful. Because sometimes they pay too well.”

Ike claps me on the back. “I think sometimes you learn your lesson a little too well. You should consider trying again. I think you could do it.”

I try not to think about the idea before it seduces me. “I'm just trying to keep me and mine afloat.”

“That's why I'm here,” he replies, almost dreaming about it. “Trying to make sure I can keep my family steady. They deserve more than they have. Hell, they deserve the world.”

“What do they have?”

He looks away. “A father chasing the dream that's been all he's known since his children were born, and a husband who doesn't know when to quit.”

I close my eyes, feeling for him. “Just be careful,” I say. “Please.”

Ike's name is called, and he walks into the ring without a word. I assess the competition around me. They all look like the mess the ghetto forgot to clean up, but that's how they get a lot of us. Tempt us with fame and fortune, seduce us with pride and love of the game, then watch us tailspin while telling us they expected more from us. Everyone except Doc. I don't know if he's here. I don't wanna look. Hopefully he gets good people.

Some of the boxers notice me. Some people don't care. Some try and hide their shock, and what's left of their admiration, failing miserably. Others start whispering under their breath. One, a fat man with a yellow leather jacket, greasy hair, and a freakishly pink nose, glares at me as if I've already stolen his time in the limelight. I don't give him much attention, facing the ring as Ike starts to fight.

It's a slow fight, but Ike's got a killer defense, being as tall and unbreakable as he is. While his opponent flails trying to get him, I calculate the fight as if I were there, figuring out all the things that whoever this boxer is does wrong that I did right. They're going for sharp punches. Big hits. But Ike can block those. I just do some classic Little Mac, catch him off guard for one moment and just chip away with light, dizzying punches. I've got my speed going for me. Not style, not legend, not schtick. Just me, fast punches, and a lot of time on my hands. All it takes is one dance in the ring to set the other person's rhythm off.

Predictably, the opponent spazzes right into one of Ike's punches and is down for the count. Ike blows the dust off of his gloves and stands silently, waiting for him. Usually I keep boxing when they try and get up, just keep the rhythm going, but Ike's not about that. He's just keeping calm, keeping clean, ready for the fight at every turn. But the guy stays down, the bell rings, and the loser is escorted out of the ring. And, again, not to my surprise, Ike thanks the referee, accepts the cold towel around his neck with another thanks, and when the loser makes his way past Ike, he offers a handshake, which the half-conscious boxer takes.

Two people I don't know work their way up. While I do, I see a guy almost as tall and as thin as you pass by me, dressed in a tank top and tight purple pants. I don't know how he ended up here, but he's a natural waiter, passing out beers and sports drinks to the boxers, shaking hands with the fat man, and even flirting with a couple of the boxers, neither of whom seem pleased. I just smile politely, because there's gonna be the one boxer that flirts back. People think it couldn’t happen here, but it can happen anywhere.

He passes by me with a Gatorade that looks beautifully cold. “No beer for you, Little Mac,” he assures me in a high-pitched nasally voice. Great, to the shock of no one, I'm recognized. I take the Gatorade and give him a quiet thank you. “Be careful, hot stuff,” he replies. I smirk, but try not to look too fazed. I don't really care, I'm taken anyway.

That's nice. I'm actually taken. I smile.

The Gatorade isn't screwed all the way, but fuck it, I didn't prepare and I'm thirsty as hell. It's gone within a minute before I can process the slightly off taste, leaving me feeling a little funny. Damn sugar rush.

Apparently once the waiter said my name, like Beetlejuice, it's said enough times to reassure that I'm here. Everyone's whispering, as if there's not a second match being set up. And then through the whispering breaks a painfully familiar voice.

“Mac is here?” No subtlety, he's practically shouting compared to the others. I see a red sweatshirt-sweatpants combo weave through the benches as much as his girth allows him. He doesn't even think, doesn't even have time for caution or to remember how we parted. That's not how Doc works. He's very in-the-moment. He doesn't have the build of a boxer, thanks to forty-five years of candy bars, but he's got the attitude, and that's why he's succeeded. Unfortunately, like most boxers, he doesn't think through his actions.

And now he's here.

I better remember what it was I wanted to say.

Doc sits next to me. The chair gives considerable way but still stands. He realizes he doesn't know what to say and he's quiet for a painful minute. I don't think he knows what he can say, just that he wants to say something.

I figure I'll make it easier.

“Ike,” I say. “Blue-hair punk-rock looking guy. Just went.”

Doc nods.

“I'd keep an eye out for him.”

Doc nods again. He still seems nervous. I can see it in his face. He's shown weakness he didn't expect to. Now he's gotta live with it. I just let him think it over. I don't have a right to dictate the conversation when our last one was me drunkenly telling him I didn't need him anymore about six hours until I was checked into rehab. It's his turn to speak.

“Mac,” he says slowly. He doesn't turn towards me. Finally, he says “I don't think this a good idea.” It's not rejection, it's coaching again.

“I'm not going for the big time again,” I assure him. “Just getting by.”

Doc nods. “Just take care of yourself, okay?” A pause. “I still worry about you sometimes.”

“Two years sober.” Again, I'm reassuring him. This time, he smiles. “How's Joe going for you?”

“Good kid,” he says. “He says I coddle him too much though. That I should train others too. So I figure I'll put together a dream team.” He sighs, and I process that I've scared him away from ever making a mistake again like he did with me. “So you think Ike's got it?”

“Ike has it.”

“I'll give him a holler,” he says.

I hear them call my name and I stand up to go, but I get dizzy from it and I’m considerably winded, but my mind is telling me to focus on other things so I steady myself. I know this could be the last I see of Doc today, if at all, so I finally say it.

“I'm sorry, Doc,” I tell him. “For everything.”

He smiles again. I'm glad what faith he had in me won't go unrewarded. “Don't get all misty on me now,” he tells me, although he's clearly the one tearing up. “You got a fight ahead of you.”

I center myself best I can through my insides flipping. This isn’t normal, I think, but I set that thought aside. I see the fat man in yellow walk into the ring, grinning at me. “What a tool,” I offer.

Doc laughs. “Take care, Mac.”

I nod and walk away. My feet suddenly feel like lead.

Like, it's not even a gradual thing. I'm nauseous and feeling a thousand pounds. I try mentally to process where I am, and how this happened. I go through the motions, because maybe I can shake out of this. I gradually get to the ring after a fucking eternity and climb in... crawl in, really. The feeling gets more familiar, becoming part of me, a new normal.

And then it hits me.

“Ohhhhhhh noooooooo,” I slur miserably. I can barely stand up straight, my thoughts are buzzing out. It's all a sea of despair, because I know. I know.

This sucks. This is awful. This feeling is awful. This feels like every day I had two years ago. And it’s so sickly comfortable that I wanna stay there and rest all day.

But I’m not resting there. I was thrown in there.

The fat man looks me square in the eye. Low enough that only I can barely hear him, he says “Sorry. I can't afford a comeback now.”

One punch is all it takes.

**Sami's POV**

I'm towards the end of my therapy session when you come up.

“The guy I'm living with...” I say hesitantly, coyly, like I'm introducing you to my mother and not someone who is by occupation forbidden from judging me. “I think we got a thing going.”

My therapist smiles a perfectly tight smile with perfect red lipstick and perfectly cut brunette hair and perfectly adorned everything like the perfect lucky bitch she is. So perfectly formal and so perfectly aware of everything and so perfectly able to predict my future for me while guiding me like a stupid little kid. Here I am in her perfect little office in the perfectly sanitary VA with the perfect cherrywood desk and the perfect paintings of perfect little rivers and meadows and shit. Yeah, it's kind of annoying, but it's someone.

She speaks from that perfect little elfin face in a perfectly musical voice. And I wonder why I can't enter the employment force with women like her. “That's quite a breakthrough,” she says. “I know that Armond has entered our conversations often, so even the idea that you would take that risk shows a lot of progress.”

“Yeah,” I respond. “And... it's hard. Because I still miss Eagle. And I think I'm realizing when he died, he took a part of my heart with me. And even if I dug through all the wreckage I know I'm never gonna get that part of it out of his hands. But... the thing about Mac is, I think he gets that. I mean, yeah, from the inexperienced distance a civvie can, but he hears me out. He's super good to me. Almost formal, which is funny, because he doesn't strike you as the type. But I think he knows that we're all we have right now.

“So he listens to me... and the weird thing is, that means I'm listening to me talk too. Not just here where...” I don't make eye contact. “Well, I kind of have to in order to legally be considered half-sane, but just when I feel a need to say it. And I like saying it. Because he doesn't pretend to understand, but he's rough and tumble. Pureblood New Yorker, even though I just scraped up here when I got back. And I think that's kind of what makes us great. But...”

“There's a catch,” the therapist says, predicting my thoughts before I think them.

“And it's all me,” I admit. “And I think it's because... well, Mac is cool. And he does cool things. He's been through a shit time, but he's made his way out of that. And he's in school and pursuing a career. I can't find a job and I still haven't worked through half of my issues. And we're broke as fuck, Zel. Like, his school money is all we're living off of, and I can't even figure out how we make that work.

“So I wanna be more productive... but then the world sees me and suddenly they don't see the war hero anymore. The one that never was. They see what everyone else has seen. Damaged goods. And that fucking drives me nuts, because he doesn't. And I'm so fucking jealous of him because he actually has gotten to a state where I'm not yet, and he's doing so damn bitchin'.”

“What do you fear will happen?” Zel guides me to the thought she thinks I'm gonna have.

I surprise her for once. “It's not about him and I,” I say. “I don't think he's the kind of prick that would leave me for someone cooler. I just don't wanna be... you know, a loser. Settle for being a housewife or just the lady at home waiting for him to come in with his briefcase and his Nobel Peace Prizes or whatever the fuck he has going on. And the more I talk to you, the more I think I can envision who I wanna be, but I know that might never happen. And so the next best thing comes to mind.”

Caught off guard, deliciously caught off guard, she asks me “What would that be?”

“I just wanna speak,” I say. “Because most of the time I wanna just yell at people. And it's not even all that warranted. I snapped at a poor kid for taking pics at the memorial. Because it just reminds me of how little people understand. And I hate them for it, but I realize there's a lot at work behind how they think of soldiers, and how bullshit it is. And if they never find out, it's nobody's fault but mine. So I wanna speak. I wanna write. I wanna act. For me and everyone like me. Does this sound crazy? I might be cycling.”

Before I can apologize for my fantasy, Zel stops me right on cue. “It's something that's been on your mind. If I were you, I'd let it germinate. Sometimes I can tell when you're not saying everything, but when you talk about your experience, nothing goes unsaid.”

I smile. “That's actually nice to hear. Although I don't know if you're paid to say that.”

Zel smirks, and it looks so fresh on that porcelain doll princess face. “I'm paid to make sure my clients don't jump off of a bridge,” she says bluntly. “And trust me, I've failed too many times to lead you astray.” She almost looks embarrassed for her words, but I laugh.

“That's the most I've liked you in the past four months,” I admit. Zel just smiles, trying not to blush. It's adorable enough to make me wanna cross like seven boundaries, because I've always just wanted to catch her off guard, and today's the one time I ever had. But I just treasure my small victory.

“We're all people,” Zel says. “All in the same cycle in different ways. Just keep going the way you're going and think through every choice you make. You're heading on a good path.”

I smile, because I like that. I notice it's fifty after and that it's time to go. I don't let her bid me farewell, grabbing my bag and preparing to make my way out. “Thanks, doc,” I tell her.

“You can call me Zelda,” she reminds me.

“Thanks, Zel.” I meet her halfway and exit before she can say anything else. I actually feel like I got something out of this. Like I don't wanna drink this away. Fuck, maybe life really is getting better for me. It's a nice idea, ain't it?

It's not until I've made my way out of the VA and to the bus stop that I finally register my phone vibrating against the side of my bag, buzzing like a fly trying to break out of a spiderweb. I dig into my bag and answer it before they hang up again, kicking back on the bench.

“Hellome,” I respond.

“Is this Don Keating?” the person asks in an overly professional if not slightly hurried manner. I almost ask who this is until I piece together why this name sounds familiar. Oh. It's Deeks' actual name. I ponder how the hell we actually got Deeks from this as I answer.

“Sorry, this is an acquaintance of his. What's up?”

“Can you leave him a message?”

I roll my eyes. Guess now I'm a secretary for hire. “I can try and get in touch with him, but for future reference this is the wrong number.”

“Sorry for the confusion,” the mysterious party on the other phone says. “This was the number listed under Malcolm Jones' emergency contact.”

I hear your name, the full name like you're in trouble, and I swallow. The words Emergency Contact don't help matters. “This is his girlfriend, Sami Christophe.” Weird, it actually is. “What's up?”

“There's been an incident at Lombardi's Gym,” the party explains. Faster than I can say why-the-fuck-is-he-at-a-gym, he continues. “Mac's on route to the hospital right now.”

“What the fuck?” Courtesy goes out the window. “What actually happened?”

“Don't panic.” The operator uses the two words that pretty much indicate panic is a rational response. “Mac's got alcohol poisoning. Unnatural alcohol poisoning, and mild head trauma.”

“Oh, no,” I moan, but not to him. Not even to you, you stank lying bitch. Just to life in general. Oh no, here we go again, things were finally going right but apparently that's fucking illegal in the life of Sami Christophe. I barely hear him register the situation to me because there's not much more to say. I can piece it together before he says it anyway.

Someone spiked your drink, so thank God you didn't actually relapse on your own. You got into the ring before you knew what was up. Your opponent knocked you out with one punch and the medics were immediately called.

He talks about the legal situation, but I don't really care about all of that. I'm caught in between desperately pleading for you to make it out okay, and being destroyed that I finally gave in to how I felt about you only to start this relationship off with a bunch of lies.

What were you fucking thinking, Mac?


	8. The Five Days In Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Mac and Sami try to piece together a way up from the bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked when a new chapter was going up. My answer was... well, I didn't know anyone cared! <3 I have had a couple of chapters but after no one bit felt sufficiently depantsed over nothing, but that's about to change.

It's all a blur for a few days. I wake up with a screaming headache. I don't know where I am, when I am, and I can barely remember what happened. I'm here in a hospital bed just moaning because of a horrendous headache, a bad stomachache- all the symptoms of a hangover. I start crying because I'm terrified of what that means, and that just makes my head hurt worse. I'm terrified that a nurse will come in and explain that I got blackout drunk and all two years went straight to hell because I was stupid enough to throw it away. I hate that I've disappointed you like this, myself like this. I'm sure Doc would think less of me than he already must. I've fucking ruined everything and all I can do is sob to myself and think of a way to make this up to you, and I'm coming up short.

 

Eventually a nurse does come in after I've cried all of my guilt out. She explains the actual situation and is surprised that I'm relieved enough to start crying again. Fuck it, I'll take assault and poisoning over doing it to myself. But I know what this means. I'm still fucked. I still am back at zero. And suddenly I hate the fat man and his twig brother for forcing me to relapse.

 

I spend a good half a day plotting loose revenge, fantasizing about punching the lights out of the bastards, using the tiny one to pummel the fat one. It's the thought that gets me to sleep. I wake up at six and I really want a fucking beer. I'm thinking “fuck it, I'm at day zero, and everything's still thrown to shit.” Then I think of you and how you must already hate me enough to take your shit and leave, and I reach for the phone.

 

I beg the nurse to bring me Deeks, only just then remembering that I entered your number in my Emergency Contact. Not knowing who the hell Deeks is, I'm at your mercy, but he shows up that afternoon and consoles me, offering his deepest condolences through sunken eyes while I apologize to him, out of tears but still broken. I apologize for the risk, for lying to him like I lied to you, saying I really did never drink and I was just trying to make a living. But I know I've broken part of his trust. He can tell that I've made it two years until now, but he can't be sure that I've never been close again. Because I'm close now.

 

“I'm sorry this happened,” he says, trying not to focus on his disappointment in my lies. “And I'm sorry it happened to you.”

 

We set up a string of meetings because I know I'm gonna need his help more than ever. He leaves and gets the nurse to bring me some soda. He's as dangerously kind as ever, and I pray to God that I haven't broken that in him. I rest for the rest of the day.

 

Day three brings Ike in for a moment. I meet his kids, who look nothing like him and everything like their mother Peach, a picture-perfect blonde in a pink dress that looks like she's from the 50s and proud of it. They bring me some sweets and she gives me some lotions that she swears ten ways to Sunday will help me as I rest up. Ike asks if he can speak with me alone. His wife assures him that he can. His kids call him Ike as they comply. Ike tells me that he knows that I referred him to Doc, and says Doc took him on board. He says the least he can do is thank me for looking out for him, and he gives me his number for if I need anything. I want to tell him that I want him to fucking murder the fat man, but I can't do that to him. He bids me farewell, and I only realize once he's gone that he's left me the money for second place at the fight. Strangely enough, five hundred dollars is enough to make me cry again.

 

There's still no sign of you, and it's breaking my heart.

 

Day four, I call the nurse asking for her to get you to come for the five hundred bucks. The nurse says she'll contact you and affirms that I'm recovering well enough to go home tomorrow. You never come by and the five hundred sits on the table next to my soda and all of Peach's lotions. Doc shows up and says that he's sorry he didn't show up earlier. We have a sincere heart-to-heart that I barely remember by morning, just knowing that something's complete now. I try and remember the words I said and not just the tears I shed, but I know I'll have to say them again. I hate myself further for costing myself this memory and can only imagine what I said for Doc to have faith in me again.

 

The police come by on the last morning and say that they've done an investigation and apprehended the fat man and his brother. Wario and Waluigi were their names. With names like that, I'm not surprised that they came from a crack family and were trying to make a living, and when rumors spread that I was trying to make a comeback he did his best to put a stop to that by having his brother fuck me up for an easy kill. Not that it went unnoticed. It didn't take the police long to clean shit up and get them locked up. They tell me I can pursue legal action and sue them. The idea sounds nice at first but I think it over and realize I don't have much to gain and everything to lose by spending the next few months trying to drain them of money. Revenge suddenly seems so useless. They're already in jail anyways. Two families came into the ring ready to do anything to change their lives but only one put up a fair fight, and they won. And that's how it should be. I don't need to do anything else.

 

The nurse comes in and takes my final vitals. She confirms I'm well rested enough to go home but that I need to take it easy. Things have been explained to my teachers but I've definitely missed two classes each and that's gonna be a bitch with finals around the corner. I take the money, the lotions, all the loot, and realize that I'm finally going to be seeing you again. Suddenly I'm both relieved and scared, because there has to be a reason you've left me alone all week. I'm worried that you might not be there when I get home.

 

Since we don't have a car, I call Ike and ask for a ride home. He says he'll ask Peach if she can make it. She picks me up in a minivan, fusses over me, tidies up my hair and makes sure my bandages are all fastened on straight, which is dangerous to do while she's driving, but considering she keeps banter with her kids in a way that's comfortingly familiar, I can see how she manages. She drops me off and asks if I need help down, but I say I'm okay so I can just get this schism sorted out without interruption. She puts my things in a reusable shopping bag and tells me to keep it, and drives away before I have the chance to tell her how inordinately kind she's been.

 

Now it's just me, and hopefully, fearfully, you.

 

**Sami POV**

 

I don't spend five days ignoring you because I want to teach you a lesson or punish you. That's shit that I'd get from boyfriends who last maybe five weeks in my psyche. Passive-aggressive bullshit. No, I stay away because I think the worst thing you can get for a headache is me screaming at you when I just want to wring your scrawny little neck for the shit you pulled. So I spend the week just trying to figure out what the fuck I'm gonna do with my life.

 

The first night alone, I renege on my prior plan and buy some alcohol because you won't be here anyway. I'm fucked up in about three different ways. This time, the alcohol just makes things worse and I about bawl my eyes out because it just goddamn hurts that once again someone just doesn't trust me enough to help myself. My own care got used against me. I didn't want to see you hurt but I couldn't find a job fast enough so you made magic money doing the shit that got you here so I didn't worry. I ask myself if I really am that pathetic but when I wake up from passing out after only the first of three beers I deduce that, yes, I am.

 

I call the nurse first thing in the morning, feeling groggy as fuck. I ask how you are, and she says you're awake, so at least you didn't die. You probably never were, but I worry. And you know that, or you'd have told me the truth. I ask her to call me if anything changes and ask her to put my name with my number instead of Deeks. I hate how lonely it is here knowing that you're gone and you won't be back for awhile, and I don't really know if I want you to come home. I settle for finally cleaning this place up, spending a boring day making sure everything is orderly, that there's no loose clothes or dirty dishes. The place finally looks like a couple lives here, ain't that sad.

 

Later that day I get a call asking me for Deeks' actual number. I find it written on a note on the fridge and give it to them. It doesn't even take a second thought. You haven't called him in ages, he usually calls you- hell, I spend five minutes trying to find the fuckin' number. Even if I wanted to exact the worst revenge possible on you the idea of leaving you swimming alone in the addiction forced back into you makes me want to bawl again, so I nip that shit in the bud.

 

Doesn't stop me from waking up the next day angrier than ever. Again, here I am trying to take care of you while you fix all your fuckups, and meanwhile you act like I'm the only broken one. I genuinely plan to leave without a trace. I even go so far as to ignore the calls from the nurse, as if to convince myself I don't care.

 

I'm not sure where I'll go but the idea of a restart is so goddamn pleasant, even if I end up calling several homeless shelters to see if there's room. But I know I can't be there for long, or I'll lose my mind joining the ranks of way too many homeless veterans. That idea makes me even angrier than you do, and it reminds me of my plan. I call your college for myself and ask how financial aid enrollment works. The numbers sound right, and I even get a couple of veterans' benefits. I feel like an idiot knowing this avenue was right here all this time and it took me this long to figure out my path. But whatever, I'm here now, and I know mentally I could not have been there before, so I schedule an appointment for tomorrow.

 

Finally, when I sleep, things almost feel right, but I'm still alone in your bed. I think it's back to yours again, not ours like it was for a couple of days, but then I wake up and I realize that I can't run away this time. Not because I need you, although I bet that's part of it. I think it's because that's the worst thing I can do to myself, run away, hate the world, be too weak to fix things. And I don't promise anything, but I resolve to try.

 

The next day I meet up with a college guidance counselor. It goes well. I explain my goals, and he lines up a path. True, it'll involve having to take a lot of boring classes that I don't altogether care about (I always swore I'd rather re-enlist than go through Math 95 again, but I obviously was full of shit) but it comes with the sweet bonus of being able to learn what I want to learn with the opportunity to change my mind if I want. The doors are open for me, and I'm actually ready to walk in. I get home and cry again, this time entirely relieved. It's like I can finally live.

 

That is until the night when I have another nightmare. And it's not even abstract either. I'm literally back on the battlefield. I don't even register it as a dream. I don't even have any fear. I'm just here. Cold, unfeeling. Devoid of any of that sensible human shit that the military doesn't need. Some familiar faces pop up, and it's business as usual. They're as involved here as they are in my life anyway. Apparently my subconscious decides we're looking for someone. All of a sudden I'm trying to find you. Now I'm back in New York City and I'm just trying to find you. Then I do, just before a gunshot goes off and wakes me from the dream. I scream loud enough to break the windows and start looking around to see who shot at me. I look around to see where you are and confirm you're safe. I end up trying to go back to bed knowing neither of these things.

 

Fuck it. I can't sleep.

 

I spend the night trying to figure out what I'm doing with myself. I'm walking in between rooms, making sure no one shoots at me again. Or that if they do, they know where to fire and can just get it over with. I realize how little you know about me. It's because you never press, but it's also because I never tell. I spend a good fifteen minutes just mutely looking up at the ceiling as if there's a road map up there that I can register. It doesn't actually affect you directly. It's just pride. People tell you that serving your country is the ultimate pride but it's my ultimate shame. It's the red hair, it's the dress I've only worn twice, it's the glass eye, it's the homeless shelters that I used to call home when I flopped here like a dead fish, it's shoulder blades that stick out further than my chest, it's a hundred ghosts on my heart that I feel like I've paid for every day, and only one of them isn't of someone I killed.

 

All I've done is hide from it. And if I'm going to follow the path I've set myself on, I can't hide anymore.

 

Day five, I know that you're coming home. I got a call from the nurse saying that I should expect him to return. I sound fine on the phone but inside I'm nervous as hell. The anger, the disgust, the hurt, all of it comes back, as well as still trying to hold onto the good times we had so the anger I spit can actually help me stand up rather than knock me down. I take the two beers that I realize I never drank and pour them down the sink, pouring nearly half the bottle of dishwasher soap down to wash out the smell. I throw the cans into the street, watching a truck run over them. Whatever, all for good measure. I know I'm capable, and I know that I'm ready.

 

And I know I'm about to prove it to you.

  
You knock on the door. I swallow, ready to face the music. I just don't know whose song it is.


	9. The Honest Answer

I knock on the door, and I'm already preparing apologies before you can answer the door. As soon as your face peers through, one clearly trying to withhold emotional and failing miserably, I apologize, but I only get through two.

 

“Don't,” you plead. “Just don't. I can't take it right now.”

 

I swallow and walk in, not feeling well at all.

 

You give me time to rest, but I'm not resting at all. I'm watching you. The house is impeccable, giving me a hint as to how you spent the last five days, and I feel even sicker. It's unbearably quiet as I watch you figure out what you want to say. I'm no dummy, you're not hiding anything. There's going to be some sort of argument and I'm probably going to lose it.

 

“I just want to know,” You finally speak, catching my attention. I sit up. “I just want to know why you trusted me so little that you had to lie to me about this.”

 

I sigh, and I think of an answer. It's the honest answer, and I expect them all to be dog shit. “I didn't want you to worry on my behalf,” I say.

 

“Well you'll never guess what I spent the last five days doing,” you reply coldly. I sigh, because it's so fake. You are not at all cold. You are as hot as your skin was the morning you kissed me. You're ready to blow, and I wish you'd just fucking blow already so we can figure out where we stand.

 

“I know we needed money,” I said. “And I just wanted to do my part.”

 

“I gathered that,” you bite back. “And if you think I'm pissed that you're boxing... well, I am, first off, that's not off the table. I told you that I didn't want you to actually get beaten to shit on my behalf. That shouldn't have to happen.”

 

“It shouldn't, but it did anyways,” I reply. “Sorry, but that's the fact of the matter. It's easy money, and it's quick money, and so I did it.”

 

“Why were you at that gym then?” you demand, and I realize how deep in my web of lies I am. “Trying to become a big shot again?”

 

“They were offering a thousand for the winner,” I explain. “You know what a thousand dollars would do for us? That's a month's rent right there.”

 

“Of course I do!” you spit, as if I've insulted you. “Why do you think I've been trying to find work so goddamn hard? To keep you from doing stupid shit like this.”

 

And now I snap, because here it is again, the reason I did all of this. “See? There it is. That's why I lied, right there.” Before you can respond, here comes speedy Little Mac with all the punches he can muster. “I'm trying so hard to make sure you're okay. I hate how much shit you give yourself. I hate how much you're afraid of me. I hate that you always expect that I think so little of you when I'm trying so hard to be everything that you need. You're the first person I've trusted since I had to start over that didn't have to trust me. Don't you get that? I'm just trying to make sure you don't leave.” 

 

“I nearly did,” you admit, disgusted at yourself. “I very nearly did. And I'm still not decided. Because now I don't know if I can trust you.”

 

I've got no reply for that.

 

You sigh and let me be. “Goddamnit, Mac. Do you have any idea of how little I need that out of a man? Look, I already feel pathetic enough as it is.” Before I can respond, you keep going. “And no, none of the coddling and the precaution and the sweet talk is gonna make that go away. That's on me. Okay? But I swear to God if you're going to treat me like the slightest thing is going to break me back to what I was before, I'm not staying. I absolutely will not. I can't do that to myself. I don't need any more fucking pity.”

 

“No,” I speak up, because that's wrong. “I've never pitied you. Never.”

 

“Then why all this?” you demand. “Why did you have to lie to me?”

 

“Because I was afraid you'd leave if I did,” I admit. 

 

“Well, you sure miscalculated that,” you reply passively. I hate how little you're trying to care. I hate how even as you tell me I shouldn't pity you, you're still trying to coddle me when I know you want to scream at me until my ears bleed. 

 

“Then why don't you just fucking leave,” I spit. “Why are you still here? You don't seem to care either way. Why don't you just make up your mind?” My mind doesn't register what I've said until you reply, looking hurt, like you've just wasted all of your faith.

 

“Because I'm a stupid bitch,” you reply. “Makes me pretty perfect for a stupid prick like you.” 

 

And just like that, you're gone into my room, leaving me here, angry and alone on your couch. For awhile I thought this was our shit. Maybe we're just too stupid to live normally. But all I can think of how I wish I could do it differently. Recapture the magic of the night. When even then I could feel it happening. The admiration, the kinship, the allure, the desperate desire that made me sell my soul and latch onto anything just to keep someone perfect for me. I need you more than you may ever know that you need me, but I know we need each other. 

 

And before I can think straight, I'm stumbling to my room, trying to get to you, to explain an ounce of what I'm feeling, but I don't know if it's right or if I'm just desperate, as desperate for a friend as I was the night we met. The door's creaked open and you react to me with mild surprise but overall exhaustion. You pat the seat on the bed next to you, as if you've already resigned yourself to giving up.  But I know that can't be how it ends. That can't be how it ends. We can't give up. 

 

**~MoD~**

 

I think it's pretty clear that I'm not going anywhere by the way I let you sit next to me and try and sweet-talk your way back into my heart like you don't know that I can't get you out of it that easily. But you don't know that, and immediately I regret saying I still wasn't sure. Way to let that one slip, Sami. Your old boyfriends would be proud. 

 

You speak, and you're so sincere I nearly throw up.

 

“I'm terrified about losing you,” you say, looking at me like I'm a passerby and you're a homeless girl on the side of the highway trying to get her pay. Just a random comparison. But that sentence just lingers there like it says everything. But it makes no sense. Why are you terrified of losing me? Because I've shown myself to have such fortitude in standing up for myself? 

 

“You're terrified of losing me?” I respond blankly. I'm pretty sure the “are you a fucking dumbass” was implied, but you continue.

 

“I am, Sami,” you continue. Are you going to cry? Fuck, we're a mess. “I'm terrified because you've done nothing but make me want to become better than I am. Because you're the first one who had any faith in me. Because you've helped make this place a home. A shitty, near-to-crumbling rat's nest, but still a home, that I don't hate coming home to. And maybe these are just words to you, but they're not to me. I don't want to lose you, Sami, and everything I've done has been me going the wrong way about keeping you in my life before I chase you away like I did everyone else. And no matter what you think about yourself, you've done something amazing for me.”

 

I can't process that shit. It just hits me at surface level. It's such a nice idea. I want to believe that I've helped someone who lost their way find their place in life. That I am capable of making the world a marginally better place. I want that, but I don't have that, because no matter how many smiles I can put on that gorgeous little puppy dog face of yours, I still am barely able to help myself find my way. I've got a plan, but if this one fails like all the other job opportunities and attempts to get back on my feet, I don't know what I'm going to do. 

 

You see your hero, and I see my best friend, and it makes sense because I realize I'm doing to you exactly what you're doing to me. Just putting a cushion around the hard knock life we pretend we're familiar with. 

 

“Say something,” you plead. 

 

I finally break. “I don't know what to say.” I sigh and think it through so you don't have an aneurysm. This is the first time I can actually think to speak for myself. And I don't have a script. I never have. And I don't think I ever will. So I just go for it. 

 

“I don't think it can be explained easily. Like before. Mac...” This is hard. This is the hardest thing I've done. It's easy to say it to yourself but I hate myself because of it, imagine what a bitch this is to say to others. I grab my hair (which is nearly blonde now like it last was when I was, what, eighteen?) and just tough it out. “You knew what it was like the night we met. It sounded easy then, right? Merry Christmas, let's move in together and start a slice of life drama. I should never have told you anything, but I told you more than I ever have, but still not everything. Because I don't want to hurt you. And it's bullshit and it sucks and now it's what you're doing. And that's what I'm scared of.” I swallow and a choked sob breaks from my throat. “I don't want to live with someone who has the same hangups I do because I fucking hate myself a lot of the time, and that's not going to go away if you just treat me like an infant. I just need your help.”

 

“I can, I've always been there,” you insist. 

 

“Mac, it seems like it's easy to do on the surface, but it's not,” I insist. “You'll never know what it's like to wake up and look for people trying to kill you. You're never gonna watch anyone you love get shot down from the sky and have the coroner hand you the engagement ring. You're never... you're never, I hope to God, never going to have to...” I choke again, because I hate this fact being true. “Never going to have to kill another human being. Much less hundreds. And you're never going to have to come home knowing you spent the last decade of your life ruining yourself for a lie. Please don't try to understand. Please don't try to save me. I just need someone to let me cry it out for once so I can get to work on fixing things.”

 

You're holding my arm so hard it's like you're trying to keep from blowing away. Yeah, these words have a lot of force, babe. That's just life. But you just nod, and it just makes it all even worse. For being the superstar flash in the pan who corrupted his entire life and fame, you are so obnoxiously innocent, but compared to me, you're an angel regardless. Maybe you're the guardian angel I need. 

 

“Let's just fucking do this right, Mac,” I plead. “It doesn't have to be perfect. It doesn't have to be exactly what we want. But we've actually gotta help each other grow here, okay? Because whatever we have for each other, what we need for ourselves is bigger than just one person. Let's be honest, let's be dangerous, let's just be real.”

 

You just nod, as if that's all you needed to hear. “Okay. Okay. So be honest?”

 

I nod, although I'm worried about what I've unleashed.

 

You take that as grounds to continue. “I'm going to need to keep boxing,” you say. “Just for now. And sometimes I do wish I could be pro again, but I don't think I'd want to. I just want to be someone that can build others up. A coach or something, maybe.”

 

“That's a nice idea,” I admit. I like Mac the Coach a lot more Mac the fallen golden boy or Mac the victim of assault and battery. “Give it thought.” It's quiet, because you're apparently expecting some big reveal from me. “Sorry, babe,” I say, looking back at you. “I kinda tapped myself out after my big...”

 

I interrupt myself by remembering the piece of this week I didn't know how to connect to everything. I thought it was my ticket out. Funnily enough, it still is. Now it's yours too. 

 

“'Sup, Sami?” 

 

I reach for a manila envelope. I don't know how you're missing my absolute excitement. I'm so stoked to realize that I actually can do this. I just did, right? I said exactly what I needed to get you to understand me at least a little. I guess it's like childbirth- hurt like a bitch then, but now I actually realize I made something incredible happen. You finally open the envelope and read the first bit of the paper inside of it. 

 

“If we're gonna do this,” I promise, “I'm gonna take care of you too.”

 

You read my enrollment letter for your community college, and you just smile. I mean, you light up every inch of this dump with that smile of yours. It's the smile that makes me feel proud of myself. “This is amazing,” you say, and I believe it. It is amazing, because I did something to help me, and now it's helping you too. Your pretty face is mine to kiss, babe, and it's not gonna get knocked around by corrupt jackoffs on a greedy streak ever again as long as I can help it.

 

“College sweethearts,” I cheer quietly, but I'm near to crying again. I hope this isn't a habit. You let me pull you to your side so I can promise you the world like I've always wanted to. “Now we're a team.”

 

“We always were,” you promise. 

 

I smile at the idea, because I'm too exhausted to fight it. I look around the room we now share, my scant few clothes lining the closet with your lived-in outfits, many of them still not worn from laundry day. I stretch my legs on your bed, and they finally touch the bedframe, but I still fit. This room's cleaned up from how it looked before. Still a ratty basement apartment with one bedroom, but it's ours. It's something that we've made happen together in our own delightfully unbalanced and haywire ways. The more I lay here with you, the more I realize that I've finally come home. It's not a great home, and I'm not the greatest me, but it's the home I always wanted. Someone true that I could trust, and somewhere real that connects me to the world I fought for. 

 

I'm just glad I'm fighting with you. 


End file.
